Seventy . . . Page 23
After a trip to Delhi, I was asked by a Dilliwalla if I had noticed a peculiar Delhi phenomenon. Which one, I wondered. ‘Nobody is willing to open the mouth and say something—anything! People are so scared and wary. Notice how shifty-eyed everyone is . . . looking over the shoulder . . . just in case there is a sarkari snoop around.’ Absurd! ‘Why do you stick your neck out?’ I was asked. Because I have a neck, I joked. ‘But look at the level of personal attacks.’ Yup. Go ahead. Look at them! Aren’t they foolish? ‘No—you are foolish.’ That’s what I am told by ‘well-wishers’ constantly. It’s too late to stop being foolish. I like being foolish. Criticism? I can take it in my stride. If that had not been so, I would have been dead . . . or silent . . . decades ago.
At a super lavish party in Delhi, a very successful but slightly drunk man kept repeating, ‘Madam, I salute you. You are so gutsy, don’t you feel scared?’ Huh? I must have looked totally baffled! Initially, I thought, is he confusing me with someone else, perhaps a television anchor, an activist, a politician? My husband was seated between us on a large sofa in the garden, making it a little difficult for this gentleman to slither any closer. I asked, ‘Scared? About what? Scared of whom?’ He looked over his shoulder (people in Delhi do that a lot, it’s almost a reflex action), and indicated with a hand gesture that I could be shot. I burst out laughing. ‘Why would anybody waste a bullet on me?’ He leant across my husband and said in a hoarse whisper, ‘Many people, madam, many people.’ This was months before Gauri Lankesh’s murder rocked India. He then went on to narrate how ‘dangerous’ it was in the current political environment to open one’s mouth and express views that did not echo those held by those in power. ‘Madam, in Delhi it is like this—you keep your mouth shut, and your head low. You never know who might be listening and then taking action against you.’ He pointed to his attractive wife, ‘She keeps warning me not to say anything controversial to anyone. But after a few drinks, I start blabbing . . . can’t stop myself. But, madam, you just say whatever comes to your mind . . . that is not allowed.’ Allowed! I hate that word. I merely smiled and told him the option of keeping mum does not appeal to me. Never has. Never will. I reminded him (and myself!) that I was not some giddy-headed, immature, irresponsible schoolgirl shooting my mouth off to attract attention. What I expressed in the public space was something I staunchly believed in. If that was unpalatable to a few, so be it. If the consequences of taking a stand were unpleasant—that’s that! I also gave credit to my husband and children for standing by me when things got rough. They may not have agreed with my views. But they respected my right to express them. The man beamed and pumped my husband’s hand. ‘So you are the hero. Congratulations, Sir. Boss, aap kamaal ke aadmi ho.’
I was not some giddy-headed, immature, irresponsible schoolgirl shooting my mouth off to attract attention. What I expressed in the public space was something I staunchly believed in. If that was unpalatable to a few, so be it.
See what I mean? This was such a transparent and innocent response, I didn’t feel in the least offended. The man ordered another drink and must have gone home a happy fellow thinking, ‘No wonder she is gutsy! She has a strong man behind her!’ Aaaah—the delicious ironies women deal with! Such an attitude does not bug me, because it is upfront and minus hypocrisy. Most men and women cling on to stereotypes, because any other kind of thinking demands too much effort.
I keep questioning myself about this whole ‘gutsy’, ‘courageous’ business. So many women—complete strangers—walk up to me at airports and other public places to pump my hand, hug me, take selfies and tell me they ‘admire my courage’! Some go further and add, ‘You are one of the few women in India with balls.’ Sometimes, my chest puffs up with pride, and I turn to my children/husband and gloat, ‘See? And all of you constantly criticize me.’ They don’t take offence, they just look exasperated! ‘Oh please, Mother/wife . . . get over it! What does it cost anybody to say that? Nothing. You like flattery. It is your weakness. Would any of these people calling you himmatwali or Mardaani Bai ever switch positions with you? No, they won’t! They are clever. They know how to protect their own interests and stay out of trouble. Look at you! You open your mouth constantly—and what do you get? Abuses! Threats. Even open death threats. For what? Are you an activist? No, you aren’t. Are you a politician? A crusader? A martyr? Then why the hell are you sticking your neck out? There are zero benefits and far too much hostility out there. Just calm down and mind your own business. Look after your health. Enjoy your grandchildren. Chill! This is your time to put your feet up and do what other women your age do.’ Are they right? Am I a childish, monumental, gullible, naive fool? I dare not look for the correct answer, if there is one, that is. What if my kids have provided it and I have pig-headedly rejected it? But I have to say this, I have never backed off from a fight or backed down when challenged. I don’t see that happening in the future either.
If there is one card I have consistently refused to play, it’s the victim card. As a woman, I find it insulting to trot out my gender and use it as a shield when attacked. I felt most disheartened to read Barbra Streisand’s comments on being discriminated against as a woman director. She mentioned it was not just men who didn’t want to be directed by a woman, but other women too. I have always admired Streisand and her enormous talent. She is outspoken and articulate, politically informed and feisty. Why then the whining? Why now? Sometimes, I feel bad for women in privileged positions who pull out the ‘I would have been far more acknowledged had I been a man’ at the tail end of their careers. Get over it! Why not stand back and admit maybe you were not that amazing, after all? Seventy is the time to own up. Just be brave enough to admit at least to yourself that you have fucked up—not once, but multiple times. It’s not easy, but at least it makes you feel lighter. You cut the flab the minute you say, ‘Hey. You know what? I was wrong.’ The pressure you place on yourself by claiming to be right all the time becomes unbearable and starts to give you—I don’t know—migraines, wrinkles, constipation . . . some other horrible stuff.
I have started the process of discarding all sorts of baggage and garbage from my life. Frankly, I had launched the exercise years ago. Criticism used to sting in earlier times. I would read a spiteful review, or a nasty swipe somewhere, and lapse into bouts of self-doubt. Am I really such a yucky person? Are my books that terrible? Certain slights and malicious comments would corrode my insides . . . and I would stupidly wonder, ‘But what did I do to that person to warrant this?’ Quite forgetting that I had wounded countless people myself with my sharp remarks in print. Once I recognized this two-way process for what it is—part and parcel of being a public person—I stopped fretting. But that doesn’t mean I stopped remembering! I forget very little—it’s both a boon and a curse. Conversations, in particular, or certain incidents remain permanently stuck in my memory bank. Sometimes, I get irritated by this ‘total recall’ and try to declutter my brain. But memories are like chewing gum—the more you struggle to get rid of them the more they stick.
The new breed spawned by Bollywood
Much has been written about Bollywood stars battling depression and other mental illnesses. Given the unreal worlds they occupy, and the pace at which they live, high levels of stress are a natural by-product. If far lesser beings like ourselves are forced to deal with unfair expectations at times, one can only imagine what movie stars go through. Having seen the film industry evolve into the movie factory it has become today, I have been both amused and alarmed. Since in the age of digital media, nothing is hidden and stars are happy to parade and peddle their insecurities to fans, one wonders what happens when the lights go off, and they are alone with themselves. I suspect they are rarely alone. And even if that does happen, I’m pretty certain they have coping mechanisms in place to help them deal with themselves, really.
The younger ones do not utter a word without consulting their managers. They are so closeted, they appear dazed if asked a direct question. Whether
it’s the commercial events they show up at, or press interactions, their every breath is accounted for. It costs! They refuse to make a single decision—something as minor as ‘Do you want a coffee now or later?’—without looking at their minders for a correct response to the question. They are not dumb at all. Just dumbstruck when it comes to dealing with the real world, the one outside the studios. They like hanging with one another in such a claustrophobic way, one feels a little sorry for the bunch. Insular and insecure, they refuse to discuss anything outside the movie orbit. They live, breathe, eat and think movies. Not in a way that makes them appear passionate about cinema. Rather, they end up sounding passionate about themselves. It is the next film, the next song, the next shoot that is discussed obsessively. No wonder they rarely have friends outside the closed world they occupy. Watch them in public. Watch in particular when they look around and don’t find anyone else from the film industry. Their eyes widen in panic, and their body language changes dramatically. They rush to the washroom and stay put for a really long time, till their minders walk in and persuade them to emerge as their fans are waiting. Once the photo op is over, they rush out into their waiting limos like their pants are on fire!
Another quirk. Stars love awards. Call them to any award function and they’ll turn up, provided they are guaranteed an award. The category doesn’t matter. An award is an award. It looks great gleaming away on the mantelpiece. This is the deal: Organizers concoct bizarre categories in order to ensure a great star turnout. No stars means no sponsors means no media coverage. Escorts are posted at the sprawling residences of top stars to make sure they leave home on time and show up for the function. Based on how many stars have been roped in, the camera crews take vantage positions. Advertisers start counting eyeballs as soon as the first star makes an appearance on the red carpet.
Once inside the venue, stars head for other stars and ignore everybody else, the chief guest included. They form a noisy, rowdy clique of their own and think nothing of disrupting the proceedings. The attitude is obvious: We are doing everybody a favour by showing up. We get paid to show up—not talk to anybody or even smile. Decibel levels keep rising from the star table, as more friends arrive. All of them huddle on this one table, even if it is a sit-down dinner with designated seating. Nobody dares to ask them to take their assigned seats. Once the awards get under way, the stars lustily cheer one another, but nobody else. Neither do they wait for other awardees to collect their trophies. The moment they get theirs, they coolly walk out with an entourage, no apologies, no goodbyes, not even a ‘thank you’. If asked why they aren’t staying for the dinner they have accepted, they trot out the same reason, ‘We have a flight to catch!’
Rehab is no longer a bad word in Bollywood. Neither is depression. In fact, it’s cool to talk about mental health issues. Or tell the world about an early bout with some deadly disease, since cured. AIDS and gay relationships still face taboos. But even those two last bastions are likely to be breached soon. Bollywood has stepped up, as it were, and outed several sensitive subjects in recent times. Young actresses talk about alcoholism, young actors proudly discuss their battle with drugs. This new openness is refreshing and welcome, as compared to the past when movie stars lived in a parallel universe in which there were only vestal virgins who sipped colas, while their male counterparts stuck to lassi and nothing more potent. Today’s movie stars, perhaps taking their cues from Hollywood, are open about everything—from their relationships to their addictions. Does that tarnish their image? I’d say, to the contrary—it makes them less godlike, more human. Even if in their more ‘human’ avatars they can and do get away with murder.
I have always maintained a healthy distance from Bollywood. It is one of my better decisions. There is no such thing as ‘friendship’ in showbiz. And journalists who believe they have close friends who actually care for them in the mad whirl of movies are deluding themselves. Movie people only care about themselves and other movie people. So long as they have use for a person in the media, and the person becomes ‘complicit’, the relationship endures. Once the journalist steps down—finito. I have seen a lot of angry, disillusioned film magazine editors, television journalists and those handling social media expressing anger and hurt when they are struck off those all-important Bollywood lists, sometimes for writing a less-than-gushy piece about a star. It is a mutual state of suspended love–hate between media and movie folks across the world. A serious trust deficit both ways. I don’t see that changing. We love our stars. We also hate them. They feel the same. So it’s all good.
The great media bazaar
Sometimes I wonder how some of my contemporaries would have fared had they stuck to their jobs in Mumbai/Kolkata, and not moved to Delhi. I am talking about the ones who used to boast, ‘I have fire in my belly and balls of steel.’ Now, sadly, the very same chaps have malt in their bellies and rubber balls between their legs. Had they stayed back in the cities which nurtured their early journalism, I think most of them would have grown phenomenally as writers/journalists, but that may not have been their ambition. Almost without exception, every single editor who relocated to the capital gained clout, but lost credibility. There is something toxic about the air in Delhi. The pollution is not restricted to the foul atmosphere. There is moral pollution that pervades every inch of the capital and ends up destroying the very people who set off jauntily to ‘clean the system’.
Editors who shaped opinion and influenced policy in the eighties are dead, dying or drunk. Drunk with their sense of entitlement and power, as they hobnob and get into bed with oily netas and boast they can bring down governments. Most have amassed fortunes in ten short years and live the lives of pampered nawabs, strutting around the corridors of power leering and sneering at lesser beings. The era of jhola-wallas ended long ago. But the Mumbai brigade that migrated to the capital, mercifully, did not pay the slightest attention to that pretentious dress code of Dilliwallas and brazenly took with them the Mumbai style of sharp suits and tailored kurtas to the salons of Prithviraj Road—a look that was more corporate honcho than hungry hack. These men knew their malts and molls, and impressed rustic politicos with their savoir faire. Coming from Mumbai, it was erroneously assumed they were on backslapping terms with Bollywood superstars. Media barons fell over backwards begging for ‘intros’ to starlets. Netas assumed these chaps could swing deals with fat-cat Mumbai industrialists and the fat-cat industrialists assumed the smart-talking journos would open sarkari doors. So many assumptions! Journalism itself became incidental. Cutting deals and peddling influence created the new generation of super hustlers, PR agents and—plainly put—media pimps. It was a huge sellout.
But then again, the ones who left knew exactly why they were leaving. They moved to Delhi to make money. Big money. They would visit Mumbai, stay in the best suites, throw their weight around and brag about their closeness to the biggest political personalities in the land. Soon Mumbaiwallas began to suffer from a major inferiority complex. Former colleagues turned into rivals and foes as they bitched out Dilliwalla editors and threw big numbers around to ‘prove’ their corruption. We heard stories about Swiss bank accounts and exotic foreign mistresses, lavish farmhouses and kids whose education had been underwritten at Oxford, Harvard, vaghera. Every neta had his coterie of pets, and the ex-Mumbai men no longer needed to crawl for acceptance. As one of them put it, ‘We’ve all made money. What we need is fame.’ Tra la—television bosses decided the best way to shut mouths and neutralize criticism was to give everybody a talk show. It was an inexpensive way to co-opt top journos and a win–win for both. I remember one of them telling me in thrilled tones how he gets mobbed at airports!
Today, of course, it hardly matters who edits a newspaper or magazine. Readers don’t care. Nor do media maaliks. Papers are produced by the marketing guys who decide content. Every square centimetre is for sale—the front page, the sports pages and all else in between. The former Mumbai gang does not matter. But Bollywood does. Delhi b
ows to Bollywood and therefore to anybody in Mumbai who is connected to the movie world. I watch the charade from a distance and smile. Of course the media has changed. Of course it isn’t what it used to be. But then—what is? Move over, journos—make way for bloggers. And what is sweetly called MOJO (mobile journalism). I am all for it. Everybody is a journalist today. It’s far better than putting up with mediocrity parading as genius. Showbiz rules. Fake news sells better than the real stuff. Someone in Delhi, who once made a living out of ideas and words, now sits in the Rajya Sabha and peddles influence of a different kind. The masters have changed—from media maaliks to political patrons. Closeness to power corrupts. Cosiness with power corrupts absolutely. Theek hai, bhai. What the hell is ‘truth’, in journalism or outside it. Why point fingers at ‘sold out’ journos? Idealism in this business is about as useful as a fish that flies.
I have never been a people pleaser and I don’t write to impress my peer group. I know what they think of me. ‘Please, yaar, I can’t take her seriously! So banal!’ That’s okay. I don’t take any of you seriously either! Please don’t take me seriously. I would be seriously worried if this lot thought well of me. Some time ago, I was asked to be ‘in conversation’ with a very successful journalist/author. I think he expected to chew me up during the session and made the singular mistake of arriving for the interaction without doing basic homework (arrogance!). We were introduced in the foyer by the organizer and the author looked me up and down rather insolently before adding, ‘Oh . . . I saw you at the Jaipur Lit Fest last year. I was on stage with a prominent Pakistani writer who looked at you and said, “I want to meet her—she’s such a hottie!” You were wearing black leather pants.’ Mr Journalist, why the bullshit? So much for your journalistic eye and sense of observation. I don’t wear pants. And leather? Never! I smiled. We went up on stage. He tried a few more sexist cracks that were pathetically out of sync with today. I steadily kept up my part of the evening by sticking to his rather mixed-up book. He tripped over himself over and over again. How can I take such a man seriously, huh? Later, I had a good laugh when I overheard him commenting about me in incredulous tones to one of his grovelling, snivelling groupies: ‘Man—she is something else! I am amazed—I mean, she’s so intelligent!’ No kidding, baby! Chew on that!