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Is Fiction Tastier Than Fact?

09 Tuesday Mar 2010

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In tabloid journalism, respect for the truth and the other person’s dignity never existed, that’s why it is politely termed ‘trash’ or a ‘rag’. All the hoolaa in the media about wronging celebrities got me thinking about something that I have realised for a very long time. In much the manner that terrorism becomes a clinical act of violence, where those who cover the crime beat begin to lose touch with humanity, sensitivity and emotion simply because after a point it is too hard to keep up; in much the same manner (but with no similar justification), the general media treats a celebrity like an object they own – to be used for sensationalism and to sell copies. After all, money taints many things and when money is involved (think buyers, subscribers, advertisers and targets) there is a very clinical attitude towards celebs. They end up being names, that people throw around, that are replaceable by the next available or prominent personality. They are evaluated like objects with features, and their time is up for grabs.

But we forget that just as quickly as we are willing to sully friendships for cheap gossip, we are willing to drag celebrity-strangers through the muck because their pain is irrelevant to us. A conscience is an archaic word that has lost meaning a long time ago. And since when are celebrities people? It appears to be a price we believe they should pay because they enjoy fame: it is a way to level the field. You can’t have the cake and eat it too, you should end up paying for it in some way, and that is by being muck-mired.

Even if a celebrity has chosen the path of the limelight, nowhere have they signed up for public humiliation. If it has become a part-and-parcel of public life, it is because, we as an audience, have made it acceptable. It is because we buy, read and excitedly discuss Aishwarya’s supposed health problems, Hrithik’s spring cleaning, Deepika’s relationships and Imran’s equations with his co-stars. We choose the lower road, and that makes us as bad at the media who print stuff like this.

Whether the rumours and true or false, whether the celebrity is a good person or bad is logically irrelevant to his/her job. Just the way we judged Clinton’s presidency on the basis of his sexual choices or Tiger Wood’s golf game on the basis of his loyalty to his marriage, we are wrongly judging our own actor or a sports-person on his/ her personal life. If they open their life to us, it is their choice; if not, still their choice. But spreading rumours (whether based in fact or fiction) about their personal life should not be our choice. As media and as readers we should be merely interested in relevant facts – or is that too boring for our palate now? Can we digest dull, boring facts after being brought up on a gourmet diet of tasty hearsay, rumour and Chinese whispers?

Is it not our responsibility to respect the people we admire for who they are, who they appear to be, who they may be, and for who they may not be? Isn’t that being human? And shouldn’t we concentrate on good sport and on good cinema, as opposed to trying to be a voyeur into another’s life? Really, let live and let be.

Actually, get a life – your own.

Political Balance Sheets and Media Glory

15 Monday Feb 2010

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When we consider how ineffectual our political system and our elected representatives are, we often wonder what we can do to make them accountable or care. Obviously, seeing the recent barrage of films and reportage, we believe that the media is responsible to a very large extent in the lack of accountability. In much the manner that in a democratic set-up we elect representatives, we also ‘elect’ our media to play an important role in defining our thoughts, opinions and in ensuring that we remain protected and taken care of at all times. The easiest way for the media to do this is through responsible journalism – by not distorting the news, not grabbing eyeballs just for TRPs, not sensationalising but simply stating facts and pointing out areas that have gone awry. So, very simply, if the political dailies were to – every week or fortnight or month – run an impartial page on a political ‘balance sheet’ – a report on what promises were made at the time of contesting an election, and what the current standing is for all our elected reps., where the problems have occured and what is expected now…. This can’t be an occasional expose that happens in India Today or TOI etc, but rather, a regular accountability system that keeps the people abreast and the reps on their toes. So, you can’t fake it, you gotta do it and then find yourself written about and held accountable. This would keep the political media busy enough that they don’t need to create drama and fanfare over trivial issues, and political debates that lead nowhere, but rather an administrative system of checks that we can refer to at the time of elections.

Trust-fund Trysts

18 Friday Dec 2009

Posted by in Humour, Publication: Verve Magazine, Social Chronicles

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Published: Verve Magazine, Musings, December 2009

Oh how we long to be young! Ironically, the young long to be mature and sophisticated. Mud wrestles and creamy cakes are not child-friendly anymore – the quotient has been upped with designer parties, kiddie spas and island hopping on private jets. The one-upmanship is like parental roulette and the trust-fund babies hold the strings to throwing a mean party, Russian circus et al, finds SITANSHI TALATI–PARIKH

I COME FROM THE ERA OF BRIGHT balloons, candy floss, Goriawala’s chocolate cake and deliciously buttery Camy wafers. It sounds like a cliché, but I don’t know where in the space of two decades childhood became a cliché and sophisticated maturity became the new youth buzzword. Recently, at a Verve A-lister party, I was amazed to see that these Chanel-bearing, Choo-tapping and Vuitton-wearing younglings (under 25, mind you) carried themselves with an air that made them out to be well beyond their years. They eyed the paparazzi through the fringes of their long masacara-ed lashes, simpered and smiled, posed and pirouetted with feline grace. I was almost embarrassed to think back to the gauche teenager I used to be. Carrie and Samantha – the ultimate echelons of style and sophistication – shared my concern in Sex and the City. Where the Hamptons are taken over by beer-spouting kids and ‘grassy’ romps on the beach, childhood has entirely gone to pot. Besides ruminating on questions like ‘where has the childhood gone?’ and ‘why must everyone be in such a tearing hurry to grow up?’ we arrive at the things people are doing to grow up super fast.

Ever heard of the ‘sparty’? Let’s take it a step further, ever heard of a ‘sparty’ for eight-year-old divas? So, you pick a cool spa like Rudra, Myrah or your favourite deluxe hotel, pack off the little pretty-somethings for a day of relaxation and detoxification – because of course education can be so stressful nowadays. Primping and softening the tresses, pedicures and manicures, will have them looking the best for their play dates. It’s a fabulous way for the little girls to bond and create lasting friendships. After all, every girl worth her bath salt knows that the secrets shared at the most vulnerable – attending to the most exquisite feminine rituals – are secrets that will last a lifetime.

That’s probably still rather tame compared to having an entire Russian circus troupe flown in for a birthday – I mean you can’t get more global than that. But then, Raj Kapoor was a trendsetter in many ways – though the poor chap may be turning over in his grave at the thought of the fresh age group his ideas now cater to. So custom-made Hello Kitty invitations-and-theme-parties probably don’t stand a chance against a Russian circus, but then what are the less fortunate to do?

Pyjama parties – sleepovers – are still in, apparently. It always helps to read the updated fine print – because you might find your knickers in a twist when you realise that sleepovers come with a spanking new avatar. I may have studied at a co-educational school, but believe me, my mother would have not stood for mixed-sex sleepovers without parental control (she probably wouldn’t have stood for it even with parental control). The buzz is in on a recent sleepover of seven-year-old boys and girls at a premium luxury hotel: a heavy-duty suite booked to accommodate the growing demands of the kids, who probably enjoyed an out-of-control and slightly racier version of not-so-Home-Alone part deux. I’m guessing they weren’t just painting toenails, or is that just me?

For the concerned parents who prefer chaperoned luxe, they are careful to plan a trip for the mommies as well as their darlings – all flown out to an exotic locale – logistically preferably to a nearby country, like Koh Samui, in Thailand – to bring in the birthday of their special little someone amid Thai massages and palate-stinging curries. To be honest, however, birthday bashes at luxury hotels are passé unless they happen to be an entire island – secluded and completely private. American reality show Paradise Hotel comes alive with a private jet flying the closest friends of the 16-and-18-year-olds to the Vivanta Coral Reef (by Taj), Maldives – the latest hip resort perfect for the swish set to unwind with tantalising curry Martinis. The new avatar of the resort sits well with those willing to party hard rather than just sunbathe. The long weekend is sunny and bright: with a private cruise liner floating around, just waiting to be boarded and there is no better way to get the perfect tan that will be flaunted when back in the city.

iPhone-wielding kids in the age group of four-10 are generally used to being cajoled with TAG Heuer watches and Mercedes cars – because toys and books just don’t cut it anymore. BlackBerry phones are the order of the day for the busy eight-year-olds because they can always get a ‘BlackBerry thumb’ massage to release the stress from their little fingers at a ‘sparty’ later. And the outfits are chosen with determined precision and care – a pre-planned outing to Emporio in Delhi (or the equivalent in your urban centre) is required to make the spectacularly difficult decision between a chic Moschino and Marc Jacobs outfit for the little one who has about a decade to go before her debut into haute society.

So it is not exactly surprising that these kids as teenagers frequent hip nightclubs for their exclusive private parties – tables booked, champagne flowing, and an open tab running – where the kids I’ve seen, look no older than 12. Okay, they’re probably 14 or 15. Where celebratory escapades to Alibaug homes, on daddy’s private jets to Jaipur, Goa beach houses and Ibiza raves are the flights of fancy, I’m guessing this is the point where parents stop being too concerned about their ‘naïve’ kids taking a wrong turn when headed abroad – like making headway during Spring Break at a Cancun foam party or breaking the ice when at a semester-at-sea course.

At the end of the day, it’s not just about throwing the party of the century. The cyberworld, paparazzi and glossy magazines should all be buzzing with reverential whispers of your budding creative genius. In whichever way you choose to package your baby’s luxe bash (no pressure, of course), ultimately it is merely a test of your imagination, creativity and trust fund that gives it the right touch of extraordinaire. After all, it is going to set the standard for your child’s future endeavours.

Barenaked Ladies’ Men

18 Wednesday Nov 2009

Posted by in Humour, Publication: Verve Magazine

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Published: Verve Magazine, Verve Man Supplement, October 2009

Salman Khan, the trailblazer of toplessness in Hindi cinema, transformed from an endearingly lean romantic hero into a full-blown male with an explosion of warrior-like muscles. The others grudgingly followed suit(less). Tongue firmly in cheek, SITANSHI TALATI-PARIKH disclaims all puns as truly intentional as she traces the shirtless journey

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WE LOVE THEM, WE LOVE TO hate them, and now we’ve got them by the balls. For years, Choli ke peeche remained a resounding metaphor for desi mankind, as women heaved with cleavages bared and shimmied their naked bellies. It’s time for retribution. Men have now to convince us of their physical worthiness. No, I’m not a feminist. I truly love men, but this is honourably judicious and just sound philosophy. No woman or gay man worth her/ his salt will settle for less than that.

So began the era of the shirtless man – and the ball was set rolling by Prem-boy. Boy, do I miss Prem from Maine Pyar Kiya. I’d be his friend any day! Ignoring the fact that his first commercial success may have had something to do with his lean frame and boyish charm, Salman Khan instead fixated upon the name as a lucky charm and decided to henceforth fill the screen with his presence, literally. Prem from Partner and No Entry are not exactly more prem-worthy simply because there is more of him to love. Characteristically, Salman Khan’s beefy frame became more ‘wanted’ than his histrionic abilities as he cleverly diverted our attention to his torso, with frequent fluid and well-practised moments of sudden shirtlessness. The swollen muscles oozed charm and the girls swooned. And the men followed suit. Swooning, I mean. They began hyperventilating – they realised that to be taken seriously, as true romantic lovers, with fire in their loins and sincerity in their hearts, they would have to bare all. Truth be damned, the shirt must come off. And so began that waxing of the bodies and the waning of the clothes, as the actors worked themselves into a deep sweat for the roles that demanded an idolisation of their bodies. The Khan gym became the harvest ground for the upcoming lean, mean male machines.

Shah Rukh Khan decided that the best way to circumvent this phenomenon was to do exactly the opposite – keep his shirt on. Tantalising and teasing, he wore skin-tight ensembles, T-shirts that promised a well-toned torso when peeled off, to which only those near and dear would be privy. For the not-so-lucky others, it was left to the fertile imagination and Chinese whispers. And then, someone near and dear to him decided that enough was enough. Such magnificence must not be left inside the closet, but must be shared with the populace at large. So, amid quite a splash, all multiple packs of SRK’s un-really flat belly were exposed in Farah Khan’s Om Shanti Om. The women (and men) responded with sincere gratitude – so much money was spent in a genuine quest for sensual pleasure that the two Khans (one with a flat stomach and one generously pregnant) sang their title track all the way from the box office to the bank.

Aamir Khan watched in stoic silence. He knew his work was cut out for him. Baring his chest as a farmer would only get the spade card – he needed a clever way to up the shirtless quotient into an ace of hearts. He decided that the only way to make women scream with orgasmic satisfaction was to go down south. That’s when he decided to recreate Ghajini in Hindi. His blown up torso filled the screen with its angst, the veins on his muscular arms popped out with fury – that seemed to glower with an incinerating question – Prem, Rahul or Me? After all, if anyone came after his girl with a hatchet, whether she lived to tell the tale or not, he would make sure justice was achieved. Even if it killed him to remember to do so.

While the cream Khans were running around scheming pure nudity, at the Kumars’ there was much debate about the best course of action. How could the great body transform from toned-stuntman-entertainer into sizzling garam masala? That is when they decided to take the high road – with the wife unbuttoning khiladi husband’s pants in a public display of affection. Truly hedonistic. Meanwhile, his old counterpart Saif Ali Khan was not to be left an anari any longer. He figured a hot new avatar was in order and in Salaam Namaste, in a mad Race, with a lot of Tashan, he showed the world that what he was made of. We know at least one girl who fell hard for it and requested a more detailed inspection. While playing onscreen gangster roles to vindicate his offscreen ones, Sanju baba (Sanjay Dutt for the uninitiated) decided that he couldn’t be forgotten – after all, he was in his hey days, the proud bearer of a hot bod, too! So he joined the ranks of the younger lot – the likes of Arjun (Rampal), Zayed (Khan), Upen (Patel) and Dino (Morea) who were flashing well-toned bodies and not much wit.

When you talk of the real current guard of male hotness, Hrithik Roshan and John Abraham immediately spring to mind. I recall a young Hrithik Roshan out on a romantic date with then-girlfriend Sussanne, looking dangerously attractive. He wasn’t buffed up – he was lean and lanky. And then out of the blue, Kaho Na Pyaar Hai threw up an overnight sensation – a new dancing superstar with rippling muscles and a body that seemed like it would burst out of the sheathed vests. The girls nearly jumped out of their seats with uncontrollable hysteria. I can only imagine that Roshan, a shy, ambitious youngster (the industry is full of such oxymorons) was overwhelmed with the response, scared even, so afraid for his life that he decided it was better to keep the clothes all on – at least until he was well armed. The Greek-god-superhero protected us in Krrish, battled his suitors in Jodhaa Akbar and matched wits with his counterpart in Dhoom 2, all suitably unclothed, leaving women severely asthmatic with increased bouts of breathlessness. As if that is not enough, to drive the point home hard, Roshan (with full aashirwad from Roshan senior) has decided to shipwreck our hearts even more with his upcoming super-sensual Kites, where it is all about baring more, not Barbara Mori.

John Abraham had it easy or hard depending on who’s judging. He could have been written off as a piece of rugged meat: good to bite, but tough to chew. He met all the traditional bad-boy expectations: hard, chiselled body, a driving desire for bikes and the rough road to success; and to the disappointment of many a woman, a hot babe to go with the hot body on the hot wheels. The slightly crooked, dimpled smile and the wayward earnest expression belie the fact that he has an MBA tucked up his sleeveless arm. Going straight into no-nonsense territory, steamy Jism proved early on that he had no qualms about using his body to the best advantage, Dhoom sent pulses racing faster than his bike and Dostana captured the juicy dimples in all his cheeks. After his serious nudity in New York, we may grudgingly agree with the bootylicious actor when he asserts, ‘You may know me for my body, you may think I am sexy, but you will respect me as an actor.’

And just around the corner, the boy next door has come a long way from being a performer in Shaimak Davar’s dance troupe, better known for his flamboyant relationship with Kareena Kapoor. And now he is playing the role of one of the most eligible bachelors, playing the field by playing his current relationship(s) close to his chest. Always sporting a well-expanded torso, ‘F’hahid Kapoor is riding a high horse, with hair askew, grim determination and a lean, shirtless body steering him very close to the winning line, making him the industry’s latest poster child of toplessness. Rather than well-clothed charm and boyish appeal, it is the (unnecessarily) bare-chested appeal of kamina Charlie that seems to tug at female (and box office) heartstrings.

When we speak of male nudity, there is a young debonair rake who will possibly never live down the unexpected sensation of a particular homoerotic towel scene in his debut movie, one that will be etched into memories of an unforgiving and salivating audience for years to come. He may hide behind his beard (Rocket Singh), wear khadi (Rajneeti), sleep in (Wake Up Sid) and disappear from the media, but Ranbir Kapoor will forever remain the iconic just-showered Ranbir Raj from Saawariya – all infamously fair and handsome.

Proving their own worth in the meatpacking business is the young crop of ‘thinking actors’ who are in various stages of undressing. Neil Nitin Mukesh, who has a predilection towards dark roles, has seriously gone the full monty for his upcoming film Jail. Farhan Akhtar gave us a splashy preview in Rock On!! and Abhay Deol was darkly interesting in his lazy, rather hairy topless state in Dev.D. Imran Khan has yet to show us what he’s made of, and he can kidnap us anytime to do so!

Verve Diaries on 26/11: Sab Nahi Chalta Hai

19 Monday Jan 2009

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Published: Verve Magazine, In Memoriam Issue, January 2009

‘Light a candle and watch it burn away
Light a fire in your soul and keep it here to stay….’

I read post after post, article after article of heart-rending stories and traumatic accounts. In reading them, I forget my own pain. But a greater anguish floods my soul – it is a gut-wrenching feeling, like something is being ripped out from inside. The city isn’t burning, we are. We are being caught alive and examined in public – it is our own public hanging and extermination – well-deserved in the face of reality. It made me angry when we revelled in the spirit of Mumbai, to bounce back and just get into work, without a second thought. I came to work, broken and disheartened, walked into the building barely a block away from Café Leopold and watched everyone discussing the horror in muted tones, with escalating emotions. I couldn’t join in. I watched people – young people – say ‘but it will be okay – we will be back to normal soon, sab chalta hai’. My mind screamed out to them – what is normal? Is our apathy – which is neither resilience nor spiritedness – normal?

As I arrived, a few days later for the protest march and drifted along with the throng, as if I were a paper boat riding a wave, something snapped within me. A sense of pride, a sense of conviction, a sense of determination, a sense of change. As the chants mounted into a powerful crescendo, it was the chant of a city finding its spirit. The real spirit – not to sit back and watch, but to stand up and take charge.

I felt a thundering inside me, as I watched the intelligentsia rub shoulders with the workers. Every ethnic community stood unified that night – the remote SoBoites who generally abscond from voting because it is beneath them, stormed the streets and asked for justice, pushed for change.

Of course this time it was because it was the Taj and Oberoi that got hit. Of course it was because these are places that we could have been at – on another day, at another time. And of course, it made people uncomfortable – for the first time, this made them sit up and take notice. It was unfortunately at the cost of so many people, so many people we knew, but all the same, it gave Mumbai a soul.

If we need a cause to get motivated, this is it. Let us not burn another candle in our lives – a candle that may brighten up a dark night, sympathise with a bereft one and watch out for a lost soul; but ones which eventually melt away into the night like stained wax. Let it not be another incident relegated to the archives of human thought – better left undisturbed. Let us wake every day with a fire that eats into us, ravages us, demanding that we do something, to make it right. Let it not take the loss of one more life before we hold onto our very evasive Mumbai soul.

20 is the New 40

18 Tuesday Nov 2008

Posted by in Features & Trends, Publication: Verve Magazine, Social Chronicles

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Published: Verve Magazine, Essay, November 2008
Illustration by Farzana Cooper

In a time when being young is ageless and wisdom is selective, the 20-something age group is in a different space from where it has ever been. Sitanshi Talati-Parikh ruminates on the phenomenon called the ‘quarter-life crisis’ and explores the factors that contribute to a generation on autopilot

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Youth has taken on a new maturity, and a new sensibility has attached itself to age. What is it that makes one feel old – age, a thought-process, experience or wisdom? And what exactly, defines a crisis – an inability to deal with circumstances and life? The mid-life crisis is quite been-there-done-that; what is now in prime focus is the quarter-life crisis (QLC) referring to a period immediately following adolescence – a decade of chaos lasting from the early twenties to the early thirties of one’s life, a phenomenon recognised by therapists and mental health professionals.

Characterised by feelings of incompetence, frustration (with relationships and work), identity crisis, insecurity, stress, confusion, boredom, opinionated and short-tempered responses, loneliness, nostalgia towards youth and a pressure-free school life, an inability to deal with situations and to face the reality of responsibilities; the ‘crisis’ seems to hit everyone in the age-group that suddenly realises that they have to grow up, fast. These emotions tend to occur pretty soon after the youths enter the post-college-make-important-decisions-about-life-stage.

Tweens are in a tearing hurry to be teens, teens are in a tremendous rush to be 20-something-mature-and-in-charge-of-their-lives, while the 20-somethings just want to stay 20-somethings. Suddenly the buck screeches to a halt there – leading to obvious maladjustments. Those who take life by the horns get burnt out, and those who ponder and plan, simply don’t move. It is a generation of extremes. ‘How will I know what I want to do so early? I need to find myself, test waters, I need space!’ Or a grimly determined, ‘I know where I want to go, and I wanna get there fast!’

At an age when, post MBA or post graduate school, the younglings would be just stepping out of the shelter of their parental lock and into the world wide web, these kids are faced with too many options, too many choices and a cheese that’s highly indecisive and constantly moving. Whilst embracing change fondly, this uncertain generation opts to hide behind the cloak of experimentation. It is difficult to step out of the comfort zone: marriage takes a backseat as jobs and partners switch with remarkable ease, towns and countries are no longer ‘long distance’, corporate ladders are meant to be parachuted up, and the age at which life ‘settles down’ is not in the near future. As a young magazine editor puts it, “We are living in an ageless world – the whole notion of age has been ‘problematised’.” After all, 30 is the new 20.

And so, 20 is the new 30. With the ‘new maturity’ – a biological fact that the age of puberty is being advanced – by the time we have reached our 20s, we are thinking like we would in our 30s; and ironically, to hold onto a desperate sense of youth, the 30-somethings are thinking, looking and behaving like they are in their 20s. As you mature faster, you also want to stay ‘younger’ longer.

And yet, it gets more complicated! Medically, 30 is the new 40. Stress, high cholesterol, high blood pressure, mental angst and all the adjoining ailments are hitting the 20-somethings in supreme irony, as the medical world finds new means to extend life. Consultant gastroenterologist, Dr Chetan Bhatt, finds the “hurry, worry, curry” syndrome has found its mark. QLC is officially a part of the psycho-babble and the 20-something age group is the cash cow of today.

Dr Ashit Sheth, consultant psychiatrist at Bombay Hospital, feels it’s the transitionary stress of the last 50 years – with a changed lifestyle, values, exposure, and disintegration of the joint-family system – transition from dependency to independency. The media hype and advertising-generated consumerism is all about “what you want being more important than what you have”. Women especially, are leading dual roles, with increasing demands. There is an excessive concern about weight leading to anorexia; the yuppie population doesn’t have time to consummate their marriages; and it eventually can lead to silent depression. The solution, according to Dr Sheth, is a five-fold answer: “Accept, follow recommendations, alter demand and expectations, enjoy what you have and learn to value basic needs.”

Expectations and needs are at the crux of this problem, agrees Dr Bhatt. It is the time of low tolerance and instant gratification – why slog and wait a few decades to enjoy things that can be had in an instant? Instant coffee, instant marriage, instant divorce, instant travel, instant loans and instant break-downs. As the older generation reminisces about the pleasures of delayed gratification, the need to work hard to reap the rewards; this generation agrees – but now years become days and delayed becomes instant. Money flows in easily – the concept of ‘working hard’ has changed to ‘maximise returns’. The youth often has their priorities straight – earn a ‘pot load’, somehow, and retire early. ‘And what exactly is a pot load?’ A 26-year-old financial analyst, casually describes a crore of rupees a year as being thoroughly acceptable – in all seriousness – “to lead a comfortable life.” High ambitions and an unreal sense of a consumerism engulf the youth, creating fantastic expectations and setting impossible goals.

As the material world threatens to swallow up the fresh recruits ripe out of school, it is the frenetic pace, which leads the 20-something in the quest of more or an existential nothingness. It is the epitome of the psychological fight-or-flight syndrome, dealt with a querulous sense of foreboding and complete confusion. As questions pile up and the answers don’t, these 20-somethings turn to mind-numbing, mind-altering and mindless states of being, hoping to alleviate their sense of frustration. It is especially worrisome, when India’s median age currently is 24.9 years – with over half its population under 25 years of age. The 20-somethings are riding a fast bike and driving a hard bargain, and it is important for someone to sit up and provide a guiding light. As Dr Bhatt concludes, “Dreams are not what you see while sleeping, dreams are what makes you restless and don’t let you sleep.”

Been to the Bachelorette Party?

18 Thursday Sep 2008

Posted by in Features & Trends, Humour, Publication: Verve Magazine, Social Chronicles

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Published: Verve Magazine, Musings, September 2008
Illustration by Farzana Cooper

As women experience a dramatic liberation of the spirit, they flock together in time for the most sensational party in town – the pre-nuptial ‘bachelorette’ aka hen party. What ensues is seductive, exorbitant and completely amoral mayhem, discovers Sitanshi Talati-Parikh

Henparty

Cock-a-doodle-doo. A cackle of resounding proportions ensues, ricocheting from the walls and reverberating in my ears. As the shrieking, excited women gather together in a spacious marble tiled room of a luxury hotel, I sit back in amused anticipation. Taking the been-there-done-there stance, I hold forte as the knowing spectator of a scene that is bouncing with camaraderie, clinging with subtle desperation to a youth that may never return, and high on spirits of every kind – as if this is the last night of fun, ever.

With lurid décor to offset the expensive and borderline sensational clothes, the women in one collective burst cheer the hunky man (is it just me or do I dread the sweaty, hairy ape that may just appear?) who is to make an appearance. In a flash I recall the Friends episode where Danny DeVito appears at Phoebe’s bachelorette party, resplendent in an officer’s uniform, all of four feet tall and I believe I can never forget the look of shock and abysmal dismay on the girls’ faces. I kid you not, an Indian hen party that promises a male stripper leaves me queasy and sceptical. A bronzed Brazilian or Greek God – now that would be my kind of party!

As the inebriation skyrockets, the women get louder and brasher by the minute – and the drinking games begin to take a turn toward the scandalous. From recounting your most brazen sexual escapade, to dares that would make any sane woman shudder with disgust, the parties are simply a way to surrender to impulse and try to do what one may never have or probably never will in the future. Or maybe, it is a way to explore the secret, often subdued kinky streak, to ensure post-marital bliss. Simply by letting your imagination go completely wild.

And while one is speeding down the fast lane, taking off on destination hen parties to exotic locales is high up on the wish list. Where the women can surround themselves with everything they love most – credit cards, friends, hot men, shopping, and a vacation that promises to be embedded in their memories forever. While a fun beach trip in Spain or Koh Samui or maybe even intoxicated rounds of vineyards in Tuscany would suit my taste, there are other more sensational destinations that do the bachelorette party rounds. Take your pick from gambling, striptease and can-can in Vegas to 48-hour raves in Ibiza, from singles-only adult resorts in Mexico to life-threatening adventure sports – the world is a menu, and one just has to pick a spot.

What is it that makes this night such a big deal in a woman’s life? Is it the post-women’s lib take on the bachelor’s party? In my naïve understanding of history, women would gab a bit, have a pyjama party, gossip, paint their nails, brush each other’s hair and share secrets about love and what is soon to come. It was a means of solidifying the female bond at a time when women need it the most – as they are about to enter the big bad world of men, mothers-in-law and the kitchen. And men would sow their wild oats. Literally and metaphorically.

We then arrive at the premise that today’s women have many a wild oat to sow as well – with the liberation and all that. And so, every woman wants to bag (or bed) that last bit of scandal, before she begins the journey of a devoted and chaste life. I don’t think so! As single marriages are passé and divorces are the first resort, hen parties are just that – another party to frequent the colourful social lives of the free-spirited women of today, and one that has the golden ‘Get As Wild As You Can’ pass to make anything that happens at that party acceptable.

So what are the women really liberated from? Inhibitions – of course. Moral code – probably. A sense of decorum – definitely. And that is what makes it the night of a lifetime. Needless to say – what happens at a hen party stays at a hen party. And that is one pact that strictly cannot be broken – like that of a sorority. No photos, no emails, nothing to leave a trace of what actually took place, except a vaguely delicious memory that leaves you feeling that you’ve been bad, and enjoyed every minute of it. And the best part – there is no hangover of guilt.

Saawariya: Review

19 Wednesday Dec 2007

Posted by in Art, Literature & Culture, Publication: Verve Magazine

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Published: Verve Magazine, Screen, December 2007

Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s fantastical and surreal Saawariya is a lyrical odyssey that could have been explosive as a theatrical performance or a stage musical, opines Sitanshi Talati-Parikh

Evolving the vibrant medium of cinema a notch further has been considered the auteur of Sanjay Leela Bhansali. In his latest offering, Saawariya, he draws from Fyodor Dostoevsky’s short story, White Nights, where a vibrant youth enters a snowy, mystical hillside town only to be carried away in a fantastical love affair over four surreal nights. Despite the gaps being filled by a good soundtrack, the lyrical odyssey stretches and the story is not a perfect flow through the frames and between the songs. It would have worked better, had the songs been half the number, the scenes more tightly wound and the characters allowed to develop fully. Alternatively, this could have been explosive as a theatrical performance or stage musical.

With Saawariya, the film-maker brings a superb theatrical effect to light. Drawing from the paintings of Frederick Arthur Bridgman, Fred R Wagner and William Louis Sonntag, visualiser Ravi Chandran has made Omung Kumar’s stylised sets come alive, with the use of space lights (a first for India). Add that to excellent costumes by Reza Shariffi (Ranbir Kapoor) and Anuradha Vakil (Rani Mukerji, Sonam Kapoor), the look of Saawariya is larger than life. The movie, however, doesn’t work evocatively, even if it does enchant. His multi-hued extravaganza just misses the exacting moment, when a painting comes to life.

The beautiful canvas may just be too well crafted. As the actors appear on this canvas to enact a sequence of events, the space appears too perfectly composed, too posturised, leaving the characters distant from the audience. As Sakina (Sonam) drifts past on the waters with her arm extended, it is dramatic and unreal at the same time. Suddenly that feeling changes, when accosted with Lillianji (Zohra Sehgal) and Gulabji (Mukerji). They spring to life and the film abruptly loses its dream-like detached quality. Raj (Ranbir) splits between the gaps and opens up on screen, as an identifiable character, but one is unable to get a lasting feel of his emotions as they scatter across the canvas.

The fresh, lively faces of the newcomers light up the screen. Ranbir exceeds expectations, while Sonam Kapoor shows potential. The lack of chemistry between them, if intentional, works at a subterranean level, to hint that it is a doomed love story, but the missing chemistry – between Imaan (Salman Khan) and Sakina – has no explanation. It is easier to be moved by Lillianji’s grief, as she is left alone, than it is to sympathise with the protagonists.

Bhansali’s experimental cinema is always a welcome change from the mundane histrionics of mass cinema. Whether the audience is able to accept the shortcomings of Saawariya in light of its positive movement towards evolutionary cinema that breaks with convention, is left to be seen.

Mumbai On The Rocks

19 Monday Feb 2007

Posted by in Features & Trends, Humour, Publication: Verve Magazine, Social Chronicles

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Published: Verve Magazine, Musings, January 2007
Illustration by Farzana Cooper

Sitanshi Talati-Parikh meditates on Mumbai, a city where sex, drugs and alcohol race through the party circuit, Indian traditional values are discussed over sheesha and bhang and the hippest people are those that find a perfect balance between the raciness of the culture and the values that are harped on at home

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Hip, trendy and captivating. When the season to entertain is here, the tourists and diaspora start floating in with the cool Queen’s Necklace breezes, looking starry-eyed and thirsty. Coconut water or lassi isn’t their cup of tea; the quenchers are fresh sugarcane martinis and melon caipirinhas. They move to a beat that is ultimately Mumbai – trippy techno, remixed goldies and American hip-hop. Their cuisine of choice isn’t kebabs and bukharas, but French fusion and Thai curry. The melting pot of cultures that they want to experience isn’t Punjabi, Gujarati, Muslim and Christian, but a svelte girl in a miniskirt, getting ‘hammered’ on a vodka-with-wings, grooving to hip-hop and making eyes at a wannabe American frat-boy. Where sex, drugs and alcohol race through the party circuit, Indian traditional values are discussed over sheesha and bhang and the hippest people are those that find a perfect balance between the raciness of the culture and values that are harped on at home.

They flock in hordes, flooding every fashionable place in sight from Colaba to Juhu, experiencing the way of life that is Mumbai. The Gateway of India is just a landmark for the Taj Tower or Privé, the lounge bar and Elephanta, Ajanta and Ellora are mystical card patterns sold at traffic signals. From breakfast at popular bistro, Basilico, late lunches at Indigo Deli, percussion and cocktails at Henry Tham, wine at Intercontinental’s dome, sushi at Shiru, sheesha at Souk and dinner at India Jones, these tourists are here for the nouveau luxury and sophistication that is creeping into the bumpy roads that still continue to get dug up every few months, whilst fabulous new buildings and sparkling malls pop up at every intersection. The chauffer-driven Mercs and Beamers, bearing Armani and Zara, chandelier earrings, platinum credit cards and stiletto heels, accompany them to all the hot spots, where the conversation is no longer about what is going wrong, but what is going right.

As my friends start holding their designer exhibitions in happening nightspots like Red Light, instead of staid shops, homes and galleries and art is displayed and discussed over wine and hors d’oeuvres at Saltwater Grill and at evening shows at Dusk, before a nightcap at Olive, one begins to wonder whether the city’s nightlife is pervading our everyday existence. Ryan Tham, restaurant owner, believes that it is the constant need to do and try something different. I wonder: are we really so different, or are we aping a culture that we have brought home with us, after our sojourns abroad? Is this who we want to be and is this an organic social change, or one that is racing headfirst towards collision with an intrinsic culture that is no longer in line with what is considered ‘in’?

Sunday brunches are the new buzz in a city that apparently has no limits – it is no longer chic to throw a party into the wee hours of the night – rather, it is delicately suggested to drop by for a Sunday brunch at one of the happening lounges – Vie, Squeeze, Taxi, Ra. As the sophisticates stroll in by 2 p.m., the welcome drink is a shooter – tequila, kamikaze, and slammer. Inside, the liquor and rhythm are readily flowing, replicating a night-time soirée. The only noticeable difference between the partying a few hours prior and the afternoon lies in the designer pair of sunglasses that must accompany every man and woman, to be considered fittingly attired for the occasion. To be seen without one of those, is a faux pas of the biggest sort! It is mid-afternoon, after all, and what better way to hide the previous night’s hangover than with a pair of gargantuan Versace or Gucci shades that cover most of the painstakingly made-up faces? Fabulous summer dresses, skinny heels and matching totes are perfect for the occasion, where conversation gets tiresome and the music gets louder until the invitees inevitably get completely inebriated by early evening. The ‘lunch’ is of course served by 4 p.m. and eaten in most part by 6 p.m. As I wondered why these invasive, but inordinately jolly, gatherings sliced straight through my routine massage on my only free day of the week, I was perkily asked by one very tipsy girl, what better day to party than that of the Sabbath? Besides, the best way to get rid of Saturday night’s hangover is to simply roll out of bed and drink some more! The future of cosmopolitan India suddenly looked painfully bright through the skylight.

This is the much-touted ‘McDonaldisation’ of Indian culture. Our Art of Living has found a new form of materialistic meditation, where money flows like a brook, as easily in as out. I am not surprised to find friends under 30 with complaints of high blood pressure, premature balding, cholesterol and heart trouble. Stress amongst the youth is as common as a Louis Vuitton at a party and as high as the sensex. In the race to become a Manhattan, we are quickly becoming mad hatters. Life is on speed dial and a party’s calling.

For those aching for a different scene, Goa is the ultimate weekend spot right around the corner. From ramshackle beach shacks to exquisite luxury resorts, they zoom in by the hordes. Bathing, tanning and getting ‘stoned’, Goa is their escape from the reality of their lives. They’re quietly raving but not ranting; the youth has given up complaints in lieu of escapist complacence. From Manchester to Mumbai, people ironically swoop in to hide in this ecstasy-driven pleasure haven. King’s beer, Goan curry, Domino’s pizza served on the beach, entrancing music, bohemian culture and a pace of life that refuses to speak of stress or worry, ease the harried nerves and form a balm to the acid of each day.

From the palaces of the North, to the spas of the South, India has now begun selling a lifestyle that is contemporary and current, instead of the history and glory of the past. Whether this lifestyle is appropriate is no longer the question but the worldly Mumbaikar has arrived, with luxury, sophistication and ideas galore. The icing on the cake is his endless desire to party, every night, every day and on any occasion. As the visitors flicker in by the dozens, they feel more at home, away from home, where the metropolis buzzes with excitement every minute, laced with an intoxicating flavour that is truly, Indian cosmopolitan.

My American-born-desi friend looked scornful and shocked when my husband and I announced our decision to leave the Bushy ‘country of dreams’, to take the rickety and bumpy ride home. The same person, while visiting us recently, was culture-shocked by the life that was now Mumbai. After 12 event-packed days, he left, hung over, a few kilos heavier and determinedly clutching the business card of a real-estate agent in Mumbai.

From the Scandinavian girls in small-town Italy, who speak not of the Taj Mahal (monument), but of plush Indian resorts with fabulous swimming pools and massages, to the Argentinean couple touring China, who talk of the cultural differences and expensive lifestyles in cosmopolitan India, foreigners are no longer bewildered and querulous of this poor, once-rich country. They are now in awe of this rich, poor country that is climbing the lifestyle ladder faster than they can build rungs to the top. What is it that amazes them? The ability of this Asian peace-haven to break the Lakshman rekha of tradition and dance on the bar-top of fire? Or is curiosity to see how this yogic nation can successfully climb out of the quagmire that has been sold to them by a country that failed miserably in doing the same? And can we, the brainiacs of the globe, manage to come a full circle and find material peace with the fire that burns in our souls?