Superstar India Page 8

  All those phoney ads on TV, all those tantalizing articles in various publications, all that big talk at soirees, actually add up to very little action. But we are dying to project a different version of ourselves. Right now, the mood is giddy. A booming economy does not induce instant erections. If anything, prosperity on that scale leads to dullness in bed. I noticed the expressions on the faces of very prosperous Swedes, when my husband and I spent two days in Stockholm. Those people looked glum and suicidal, and I couldn't imagine any of them having sex. Whereas, 70 per cent of India (the rural-ites!) have hardly any recreation. They toil in the fields and collapse on top of their poor wives. Condom use is alien to them. So, they breed. But at least one knows for sure that they are having sex, given the birth rate. City folks are not having sex. Well, not having enough sex. Or quality sex. But they spend a great deal of time, money and energy making themselves sexy. Makes no sense. But then, neither does sex.

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  Did Meena Kumari have sex? Enjoy sex? For her sake I hope she did both. But that was the Bollywood era celebrating vestal virgins dressed in pristine white sarees, looking grief-stricken as they warbled love-lorn lyrics, generally about unrequited pyaar. These were India's favourite ‘tragedy queens’. Nargis, Madhubala, Meena Kumari, Nutan. I hated them. And I didn't like their movies, either. Mother India? Bah! Mughal-e-Azam, Sahib, Bibi aur Ghulam, Bandini, Mamta (Suchitra Sen), Dhool ke Phool (Mala Sinha). There they were, those luscious ladies, well-upholstered with enough foam padding to fill a sofa, big red bindis on pancaked foreheads, glycerine tears flowing down their rouged cheeks—come on, which man in his right senses would want to bed any of them? Maybe that was the whole idea. Film-makers were themselves paralyzed by an overwhelming attack of prudishness. They wanted their heroines to be devis, worshipped at the altar of martyrdom. Untouched, aloof, lofty, and… boring. Nobody had sex in those movies. Physical attraction was hinted at with close-ups of flowers kissing, butterflies fluttering and bushes shaking. Even that was deemed lewd and excessive. Perhaps the scenario changed with Sharmila Tagore stripping down to a sexy bikini for a Filmfare cover, and then getting really up close and personal with Rajesh Khanna as he panted ‘Roop tera mastana’, once the flames of passion were lit, and Tagore was bold enough to let herself be seen wearing just a sheet while her wet clothes dried!

  Lots of similar fires were kindled around the time in cinemas across India. Rehana Sultana's parted legs in B.R. Ishaara's breakthrough film Chetna were so prominently used on posters, they become emblematic of the sexualization of Hindi cinema. Then there was no looking back, as starlets stripped, gyrated, wiggled and giggled their way into countless male fantasies. Today, it's difficult for directors to get their heroines into anything more than the skimpiest of costumes. Nobody wants to play goody-goody ‘devi’ roles. She-devils, is more like it. Whether it's a Bipasha Basu or an Aishwarya Rai, the rules of the game have dramatically altered—it's sexy to be sexy in the movies. And nobody brands these toned, golden, gorgeous goddesses as wanton harlots stripping their way to success. If Meena Kumari's exposed feet in Pakeezah got the masses excited and the hero (Raj Kumar) wrote a charming couplet on the lady's soles, Kareena Kapoor, Priyanka Chopra or Mallika Sherawat have no qualms about flaunting cleavage, baring legs and going all out to woo those hard-up front-benchers. With no official vamps on the scene, the heroines are filling in nicely, playing bad girls with complete aplomb. The disconnect is bizarre.

  Often, I watch middle-aged, middle-class couples with kids coming to a swanky multiplex near my home. It's a big family outing—an expensive one—given the high ticket rates, popcorn and ice cream prices plus transport. I'd say, a family of four spends around Rs 1,200 for such an evening. What happens when they get home? Does the husband feel inspired by an ‘item’ number? Does he convey it to his wife? Do they discuss the effects of all that titillation… get the children off their backs, go into the bedroom and make love? Highly unlikely. Maybe the man masturbates in the privacy of the loo, while the woman sublimates all such desires by stuffing her face with a syrupy gulab jamun. Sex is still seen as a clandestine activity, performed furtively in the dark and gotten over with as quickly as possible. Sex as a release. Sex as therapy. Rarely, sex as pleasure. Which may be one of the reasons why I am still asked annoying questions about the sexual content of my novels.

  Take this typical example: I was invited to a panel discussion on media trends at one of the most reknowned management schools in the country. The discussion turned out to be pompous and dull, till the question-and-answer round was announced. My co-panellists were media heavyweights—editors, columnists, TV anchors. The men responded to eager questions from the students in typical fashion—throwing statistics and data to intimidate the goggle-eyed youngsters. Suddenly, one guy startled everybody by demanding a mike to ask me a specific question which, he clarified, had nothing to do with the stated objective of the panel discussion. ‘Are you working on a new book?’ he queried. I nodded non-commitally since I hate discussing work in progress. His eyes lit up. ‘Does it deal with the… the… sex thing?’ I wanted to laugh. But by then, I noticed everybody's eyes were on me. The pedantic professors were staring in a way I found most intrusive, and every man in the auditorium was suddenly alert and eager to hear the answer. Just the fact that a male student had had the ‘guts’ to articulate the three-letter word at such a forum was seen as being revolutionary. That he'd asked a woman such a question was considered bold and amazing. I didn't like the man's tone. Plus, I knew he hadn't read any of my books. I sensed the question was meant to titillate and nothing else. It wasn't prompted by academic interest, nor was there a sincere desire to get an answer. I could have taken the guy apart in minutes, had I cared to, till I realized it was really collective repression speaking.

  All those men had possibly never ever spoken to a woman—any woman—on this subject. I ended up feeling sorry for the bloke, and all those other stuffed shirts who were waiting expectantly for a ‘spicy’ response. That has become a pretty common experience for me—the ‘sex thing’ comes up frequently, and it's invariably men who broach the subject with an expression on their faces that can only be described as ‘starved’. When they meet me for the first time, they seem disappointed encountering a fully-clad woman who doesn't talk dirty. Some are naïve enough to babble. ‘But… but… we thought you'd be bolder… you know… like your novels.’ They are ambitious enough to expect me to flirt with them socially, since they believe all ‘bold’, ‘modern’ women are expert flirts!

  Indian men are lechy

  So say women across the board. An Englishwoman who recently relocated to Delhi as a fashion merchandiser and stylist was hopelessly disillusioned about Indian male chivalry within ten days. She called late one evening, close to tears. This wasn't her first time in India. She'd been a frequent visitor in the old days, supervising fashion shoots and shows for foreign teams. Travelling in a pack, she discovered, was a far cry from being a solo player in the capital. The attitude of the very men who'd extended courtesy and respect in the past suddenly turned feral and scary. ‘I started getting looks… calls… suggestive text messages… invitations of a peculiar nature… I wondered, what had changed? What had I done wrong?’

  I told her just one thing—her status. She was a woman alone. ‘Does that make me an instant target?’ Alas, yes. It does, honey. The barsati she lived in became a favourite stop-over (‘Oh… I was passing by… I thought, let me stop and check whether you needed something… anything…’). These sorts of generous offers were always articulated with that annoying smirk that says unmistakably, ‘Bed me…’ She was initially insulted and appalled. ‘Do I send out sexual vibes? How dare those men imagine I'm sitting around waiting for them to drop by?’ Soon, she toughened up and dropped the ‘propah’ British attitude she insisted she'd been raised to adhere to, no matter what. She hastily picked up a few desi mannerisms (colourful gaalis, too) and learned exactly how to say ‘Shove off…’ in unambiguous term
s. About the groping and feeling-up tricks in crowded places? Well, mace cans and other ‘Western’ devices were abandoned, in favour of a well-delivered kick in the groin. ‘They yelp… I love it!’ she gloated, recounting a few incidents.

  I felt so ashamed hearing this. One would've thought things had changed from the time I was a schoolgirl. Being a sportsperson, my athletics training began at dawn, and my days frequently ended well past dusk. Yes, I was crazy enough to wear shorts since there were no changing facilities at the maidan I walked to each day. That one-kilometre walk became a daily ordeal, dogged by comments that sickened me and stares that bored holes all over my teenage body. Regular flashers dotted the route, and it wasn't uncommon to have some man on a scooter come close enough to reach out and pat my bottom before zipping away. The bhelwallah on the corner invariably yelled out, ‘Garma garam kachori khaogi? Chutney chat patti ke saath…?’ It was a far from innocent remark… mixed in that offer were centuries of putdowns. Girls like me, who didn't conform, ‘deserved nothing better’. My grandmother would register protest each time she visited and spotted me in sports gear. ‘That daughter of yours is asking for trouble… shameless… look at her bare legs…’ she'd tell my mother.

  The good part about this story is that I taught myself very early in life that it helps to be perceived as ‘tough’—tougher than you actually are, or feel. I took to carrying a javelin, hanging spiked shoes over my shoulder… I considered karate, but there was no extra time for that in my crowded life. Besides, I'd always thought of myself as a non-violent person.

  Till the day I delivered my first slap.

  I was older by then, and a working woman, who walked back from the magazine office that was a couple of kilometres from my parents’ home at Churchgate. Being in the heart of Mumbai's business district, I'd run into peak-hour commuter traffic—sweaty, harried worker-bees rushing towards Churchgate station to catch the 6.35 Fast. My pace would match theirs even though I had no train/ bus to catch. One evening the crush of bodies was worse than usual, and I felt a clammy hand first on my arm, next on my waist (two bare inches of it, where the saree and blouse don't meet), next the hand had moved further south. I whirled around and saw this most disgusting expression in the man's eyes. My hand flew to his face as I delivered a stinging slap, before swinging my heavy handbag across his chest. He looked startled… but only momentarily. Then… he laughed! Yes—he laughed! At what? My powerlessness to stop him from doing it again and again? I saw that mocking leer and lashed out at him once more (the crowd pushed past us in a couldn't-care-less way, determined to make that 6.35 Fast to Ghatkopar). He took two steps back and was gone within seconds, leaving me standing there feeling utterly violated and very foolish. I had tears of rage stinging my cheeks as I walked home. Should I tell mother, I asked myself. What was the point? My mother had never ever walked on any street by herself in her entire life. Come to think of it, she had never left her home unescorted. Ever. What would she know of the brutality right outside her home and hearth? What purpose would it serve to tell her?

  Indian men are lecherous… more lecherous than men in other cultures. This may sound like a generalization, but one does encounter this at all levels in every part of India. Women can rarely let their guard down—they aren't safe and they aren't respected. Female foreign tourists have the nastiest experiences travelling through India. Newspapers play down the stories because they've become so commonplace as to be boring to readers, who are likely to say laconically, ‘What do these goras expect? Look at the way those women dress…’

  Which is hugely unfair, given that today's tourist is far better informed, and rarely do you spot a woman wearing inappropriate apparel. But yes, some of them are trusting enough to accompany a ‘respectable-looking’ stranger offering help or showing them around. Big mistake.

  Leching is not restricted to strangers. It's the lechery within families that goes unrecognized and unpunished, because society does not encourage women to speak against male relatives who abuse their trust. Awareness levels remain ridiculously low, even as well-meaning NGOs step up efforts to empower women sufficiently so they can find the courage to nail the culprit.

  My bag-swinging days aren't over yet. But these days the punches are reserved for lechy men groping my daughters as we walk into a crowded zone. The first time I collared an ‘eve-teaser’ (isn't it the silliest description for a creep? How our media guys love it!) touching my daughter's derriere casually was at the Gateway of India. We were about to climb into a catamaran taking us across the bay to the Mandwa jetty. In all that ‘dhakka-bukki’, I noticed a rat-like fellow approaching my youngest. He moved before I could and swiftly walked away with ‘that’ look of triumph in his beady eyes. I chased after the rodent, stopped him as he quickened his pace and ‘thadaak’, the back of my hand hit him squarely across the jaw. He squealed (I was wearing a large ring) and tried to run. My old athletics training helped me give chase.

  My daughters were squirming… red with embarrassment and trying hard to disown me. A crowd gathered swiftly (a crowd gathers swiftly in India, regardless. Anything for a diversion, anything to beat up anyone, cause unknown). I left them to finish the job I'd started and rejoined my angry daughters. Seeing their expressions, I gave them one of my thundering Mommie speeches: ‘It's because of girls like you that these men dare to behave in this manner. If you don't fight back, you'll encourage more such men. How dare he violate your dignity? How can you allow him to get away?’ They looked unconvinced as they mumbled, ‘Mom… everybody was staring…’ I yelled, ‘I don't care. I can handle stares… but I will not tolerate groping.

  Today, the girls narrate this incident to their friends, their voices indicating amusement… but also pride. ‘Mom's crazy—but those men deserve it.’ Unfair as it is, girls learn to be watchful at all times. Why should the onus be on them to ‘save’ themselves from assaults each time they step out? Scarily enough, two young girls were attacked and one slaughtered at the very same spot near Mumbai's landmark, Gateway of India, a couple of years ago. Their crime? Wearing jeans. And attitude. The man who attacked them with a knife in broad daylight was prompted by nothing more than the sight of carefree teenagers in tees and jeans, enjoying an innocent outing. Frustration levels seem to be at an all-time high with daily reports of unprovoked attacks on women all over India. I'm not even going into the ghastly statistics involving rape, acid attacks, domestic violence, dowry deaths and other crimes. Something awful seems to be happening just under the surface of our carefully constructed civilized veneer. Yes, we've been a voyeuristic and repressed society for way too long, but things were supposed to have changed.

  So what has changed? If anything, men seem to be really angry that they can no longer bash up women as freely and easily as the earlier generation did. At least on paper, there is legislation that's designed to protect women. All it takes is a phone call to the nearest cop station, and someone from the women's protection cell is supposed to show up within the hour to intervene, pick up the culprit, throw him into the clink—questions to follow later. Much later. The Domestic Violence Bill has been touted as a major breakthrough, with women's organizations thumping themselves on the back for the major victory they've scored. Unfortunately, the women who need this protection the most are unaware of the development—nobody's told them. They can't read or write, leave alone make a phone call.

  The younger, better-educated generation is caught in a strange bind—they know they are in a position to do something about it, but don't want to be pro-active, since society continues to tacitly condone such conduct. A teenager I know sat silently next to his sobbing mother as she narrated the daily horror of being physically abused by her drunken husband. I turned to the strapping, strongly-built seventeen-year-old and asked him why he didn't protect his mother and physically stop his father from hitting her. He looked sullen and sheepish as he muttered. ‘Dad's not always like this… like, he's okay otherwise… but after he drinks, his behaviour changes.’ I yel
led at him saying, ‘Aren't you ashamed of yourself…?’ He looked away, but did not flinch. Clearly, Dad paid all his bills and gave him a great deal of pocket money.

  I have a theory: Today's urban men resent women who they perceive as threats to careers—their female colleagues. It's the BPO syndrome. Americans hate the call-centre Indians who've robbed them of jobs. Desi men hate women who have usurped their office space in a similar fashion. The only area of ‘superiority’ left is in the physical domain (alas, men are built stronger!). They use fists because they've already been vanquished in the brains department. ‘Hit the bitch,’ is the only way to get even. The bitch looks better. Earns more. Doesn't need men. It can't get any worse! Poor men!