Let's talk

But let’s do that as Indians; rather than Hindus and Muslims

My father’s best friend was a Muslim. It feels pretty darn weird to write that. And it feels like a betrayal of some kind to describe Masood Uncle as a Muslim; to see him through the prism of his religion; to reduce him to his religious identity. Especially since I never really saw him as ‘Muslim’. He was just ‘Masood Uncle’, the tall, shambolic man who grew up with my father in Lahore in Pre-Partition India, and whose visits I longed for when I was a kid.

Masood Uncle timed his visits to Calcutta around Eid, so that his wife could spend time with her family in the city. And in the run-up to the festival, we would all be geared up for a visit from the Masood family. They always arrived unannounced, laden with gifts, and stories from across the border.

My father’s face would light up on seeing the friend of his childhood joshing and joking with his children. We, in turn, would have a million questions about Pakistan, quizzing both men about their growing-up years. And once the fun and games were over, we would settle down to eat at a table groaning with food. It says something about their friendship that Masood Uncle – as dedicated a carnivore as any – showed every indication of enjoying the vegetarian fare on offer (my grandmother would not even allow eggs into the kitchen).

In all those years, it never ever occurred to me to think about Masood Uncle’s religion. Yes, he was a Muslim. That was clear. But it was also irrelevant. To me he was simply another adult who showed me love and affection, who had the most amazing anecdotes about my father, and who was a link to the past that my family had surrendered when they left their home after Partition.

So, why am I describing Masood Uncle as a Muslim today? Why am I even thinking of him as a ‘Muslim’ rather than just a person with whom my father shared a special bond? I managed to spend four decades of my life without doing that, so why start now?

Well, it was a trending hashtag that started this chain of thought. It exhorted those on social media to #TalkToAMuslim and was accompanied by pictures of people holding up placards saying things like “I am an Indian Muslim. I’m human too. You can talk to me.”

The hashtag was born out of the best of intentions: a desire to push back against the bigotry and intolerance that we see all around us today. But while I could see why it resonated with some people – both Hindus and Muslims – I couldn’t help feeling a bit disheartened by it.

It also set me thinking. Can we really fight the ‘othering’ of Muslims by reinforcing the perception of them as the ‘other’? Are we really helping by asking people to interact with Muslims just because they are, in fact, Muslim? And wouldn’t the people who respond to that exhortation be the ones who interact with Muslims in the normal course of events anyway? The ones who treat Muslims as aliens in our midst are unlikely to change their views because of a hashtag, no matter how long it trends on Twitter.

That’s as far as I got before another thought pushed itself into my brain. Maybe I come to this discussion from a place of privilege; maybe I don’t really see things the way Muslims who deal with everyday alienation do. As author Nazia Erum tweeted, “For those who believe the hashtag…is unnecessary, you need to turn in to conversations happening in your house, your kid’s classrooms and playgrounds. Otherization of Muslims is already complete. Demonization is what we are fight.”

But then, as if to prove the point that Muslims are not some homogenous monolith, came the comments from those within the community who had an opposing point of view.

Arfa Khanum Sherwani of The Wire tweeted, “I think what #TalkToAMuslim does is it hurts your self respect as a Muslim and dehumanizes you as an Indian. The bigotry and hatred is real but such response to it only stigmatizes the community. Don’t reduce Indians to their immediate religious identity. Don’t let them win.”

I could not agree more. The way to fight ‘otherization’ is by refusing to let people be categorized as the ‘other’ because of their religion identity. We need to see people as people, not as Hindus or Muslims, if we are going to battle the blatant bigotry we see around us.

I think my friend, Shahid Siddiqui, editor, Nai Duniya, put it best: “Talk to me if you respect me, if you enjoy my company, if you find me interesting, if you like me. I don’t want your charity or protection. I want respect as any other citizen of this great nation called India, Bharat or Hindustan.”

Shahid had a new hashtag for his tweet: #Don’tTalkToMeBecauseIAmMuslim . I have to agree. You should talk to Shahid because he is one of the brightest minds in the commentariat, the sharpest analyst of contemporary politics. And yes, he has a great sense of humour too. The fact that he is a Muslim is entirely incidental.

That’s exactly the point journalist Mahrukh Inayet made as well: “Like me. Don’t like me for my gender, my religion or my profession. Like me for who I am. And let’s please end this nonsensical conversation.”

There’s just one point where I would disagree with Mahrukh. We shouldn’t end the conversation, no matter how nonsensical it may seem. It is important to keep talking to each other. It is imperative to keep listening to each other. But let’s do it as Indians, not as Hindus and Muslims.

Let’s not worry about each other’s faith. Let us instead put our faith in humanity – and in common decency.

Khan Vs Khan

Reham Khan's memoir about her life - and her short-lived marriage to Imran Khan - is both racy and readable 

The one image that readers will take away from this book is of a stark naked Imran Khan, lying in bed, rubbing kaali dal (black lentils) all over his body (including his genitalia) when his wife, Reham Khan, walks into the room. Unperturbed, the former Pakistani cricket captain – and now, the man widely tipped to be the country’s next Prime Minister – rolls off the bed, shaking the dal off his body and on to the bed. The dal is then collected, boiled for 72 hours, and then thrown away – along, presumably, with the evil spell that had been cast on Imran.

In her re-telling, Reham Khan refers to this incident as her entry into ‘Hogwarts’ (Harry Potter and the Devil’s Dal, anyone?) because this incident was yet another illustration not just of her husband’s love of black dal but also his belief in black magic. Imran Khan comes off as a superstitious man who was constantly worried that someone had hexed him, and would consult with ‘pirs’ (religious leaders) on how to remove the curse. The solutions ran all the way from magic amulets tucked away in drawers to kaali dal strewn all across the bed.

There’s more to these black magic stories than mere black magic, of course. They are a way for Reham to illustrate that Imran does not have what it takes to be the leader of a truly Islamic nation. Belief in superstition is strictly forbidden in the Sunni version of Islam, which Reham and most Pakistanis practice. And she uses these incidents to paint her former husband as a lesser – and less observant – Muslim that herself, helpfully pointing out that Imran doesn’t know Arabic so he can’t even read the Koran.

But the impatient reader will have to wait a long time before getting to all the juicy Imran gossip. The book begins with Reham’s childhood, her brief stint as a child star on TV, followed by an early marriage to a first cousin whom she barely knew. Ijaz Rehman is a psychiatrist and the young couple fly off to England, where he starts practicing while she plays the dutiful housewife.

In Reham’s version of events, the abuse begins almost immediately, and she recounts in excruciating detail her first husband’s controlling behavior, his emotional torture, and his physical attacks on her. This part of the book makes for troubling reading and is the more powerful for that. Reham Khan skillfully paints a portrait of a young wife and mother trapped in an intolerable situation, looking desperately for a way out.

It is only 12 years and three children later that Reham manages to break free of this relationship. And then begin the single years, in which she works two to three jobs to bring up her kids, working in radio and television. It is hard not to root for the young mother as she drives herself from job to job, to make sure that her kids have the best life she can make for them.

But these are not the bits that people will buy the book for. It will sell only because of whom Reham marries next – and the acrimonious divorce that follows. It will sell because of the scandalous, and mostly unsubstantiated, gossip that abound in the latter half: Imran’s alleged penchant for sending naked pictures of his genitalia to journalists in Pakistan (one woman who apparently asked for proof that this was, in fact, Imran’s junk was sent another picture with his watch in the frame); his promiscuous lifestyle that took in everything from drugs, drink and fornication; the women who sexted him all the time even after he and Reham were married, with one of them promising to ‘ride him hard’; his inability to perform because of his drug habit; the size of his ‘package’ (‘naam baray aur darshan chhotey’ a famous 70s Bollywood star is quoted as saying); his bisexual tendencies; and so on and so salacious.

The book, though pacy and readable, is rather unevenly written. It starts off with a high-minded tone as the plucky tale of a young woman who is stuck in a loveless abusive marriage and how she summons up the courage to leave. By the time Reham has her first ‘encounter’ with Imran, it has veered irredeemably into Mills and Boon territory. (“He started to say something, and as I looked up expectantly, he instead closed the distance between us and leant down to kiss me. It was a light brush initially. I froze in fright. As he proceeded to kiss me more ardently, I put both my hands on his chest and pushed him away…In a daze I fell to the ground beside the swimming pool…”) And after the marriage collapses, the narrative descends into straight-out revenge memoir territory.

Nobody knows the truth behind the allegations that Reham Khan was paid off by Imran’s political opponents to publish this tell-all book just before the elections were held in Pakistan to destroy his prospects. But equally, nobody can deny that this book has the potential to do much damage: if only to Imran’s reputation rather than his actual election tally.

Maybe it’s time for Imran Khan to break out the kaali dal again. This time, with a brand-new recipe, to cope with the fury of a woman scorned.

  

Monsoon Survival Kit

Some handy tips to keep you frizz-free and stress-free this rainy season

Is it my imagination or do civic services seem to get worse every monsoon? The traffic snarls increase, the number of potholes proliferate, and the flooding – even when the volume of rain is not out of the ordinary – gets more apocalyptic with every passing year.

So, I wouldn’t blame you if you regard the onset of the rainy season with dread and trepidation, wondering what fresh hell will be unleashed this monsoon. I would, in fact, understand completely, and make sympathetic noises even as you moaned and groaned.

But what good would that do you? None at all!

Which is why I have decided to compile my own Monsoon Survival Kit to provide you practical tips and advice to get through this season with your feet dry, your hair frizz-free and your sanity intact.

·       Grant yourself rainy-day holidays: When the rain is coming down so hard that complete and utter traffic dislocation seems guaranteed, call in sick. If you think that won’t wash (pun alert!) then claim to be flooded in and ask if you can work from home. Then you can hunker down on your bed (or sofa) with a nice, steaming cup of tea, and work on your laptop with one eye on the amazing monsoon sky raging and raving outside your window. And when the rain finally comes down, you can take a little balcony break to feel the fresh spray of rainwater on your face. Bliss!

·        Better still, hold over some of your annual summer leave for the monsoon. Then when everyone else is dealing with traffic jams and car breakdowns, you could be walking the beach in Goa or Kerala, getting soaked to the bone as your feet squelch across the wet sand. And while swimming in the sea may be out of the question in this season, you can still enjoy its stormy beauty as you sit at a beachside shack, knocking back some fish fry with a beer or a vodka tonic. (If the beach seems too messy, then head for the mountains to feast your eyes on the mist, the fog, and yes, the rain, from your vantage point in the hills.)

·       If you do have to go to work, then work on making your commute fun. If you are driving, load some nice rain songs on your music system or pop in the earphones to listen to your latest audio book. If you are being driven, catch up on your reading, whether it is with an e-book reader, an actual book or the Kindle app on your phone. Phone a friend you haven’t spoken to in a long time. Check out your favourite feeds on Instagram. If you can fill this empty time by doing something you enjoy, something that makes you happy, even the interminable jams won’t seem intolerable.

·       There will be several days during this season that you will find yourself marooned at home. So make sure that you have everything you need to keep yourself entertained. Subscribe to Netflix, Amazon Prime or Hotstar, so that you can binge-watch the latest shows. Make sure the liquor cabinet is well-stocked. Keep lots of microwaveable popcorn handy, so that you can replicate the movie-watching experience at home. (Added bonus: at home, unlike at the cinema, you can pair this with a glass or two of wine!)

·       But while there is a lot to be said for chilling in the dry comfort of your home when the monsoon is raging outside, you will be missing out if you just stay indoors. So, when there is a break in the rain, head out for a walk in the neighborhood park. The rain will have had a cleansing effect on all the vegetation, the leaves will be sparkling, the flowers glistening, the grass greener than ever, and the world will seem like a happier, shinier place.

·       This is the season of bad-hair weeks (rather than days). The humidity will make you sweat gallons and you will feel like washing your hair every single day when you get back home. But don’t just stop at a shampoo, pamper your hair with a frizz-free conditioner. And to make sure your ends don’t curl up by the next morning, squeeze on some frizz-free mousse for good measure before you blow-dry it. (Alternatively, you could just embrace your curly-hair avatar. But while there is something to be said for philosophical acceptance, it still smacks of defeatism to me.)

·       Whether or not you have kids of your own, this is as good a time as any to relive your childhood. As a child, rains to me always meant heading straight for the terrace to get soaked to the skin. Then, it was time for a quick shower and settling down to some chai-pakora, served up by my long-suffering mother. Now that she is no longer around, I go through the ritual all on my own. But I can feel her presence even in her absence; and I feel like a six year old again. And I have the rains to thank for that.

When silence is not golden

If you hear someone say something bigoted, speak up!

Sitting down to dinner at a Chinese restaurant with another couple (social acquaintances rather than old friends) a month or so ago, I was looking forward to the Peking duck with all the trimmings. But even as the mains were served the conversation took an unexpected turn.

My female dinner companion and I were discussing our favourite walks in Delhi. After we had finished rhapsodizing about Lodi Gardens, I happened to mention how beautiful the sunsets on Marine Drive were. The lady, who had just returned from a visit to Mumbai, interrupted me to say, “Oh, I didn’t like that area at all. Too many ‘M’s, with their burqas and all. I don’t know where they’ve come from, so many of them!”

I was, quite literally, struck dumb, my feelings a weird jumble of acute embarrassment (for her as much as for me), shock that anyone could say such bigoted stuff without any shame whatsoever, consternation that she thought that I would be receptive to such communal poison, sadness that we had come to such a pass that nobody thought twice of saying such things in public, and anger that I had failed to see this woman for what she was in all the years I had known her.

Swimming in the maelstrom of emotions that her throwaway remark had aroused, I failed to find the words to indicate my horror and disgust at her casual communalism. By the time I had recovered my ability to speak, the conversation had moved on. But for the rest of the dinner, I sat in silence, mulling over the many ways I could – and should – have responded to her. But to my eternal shame, instead of harking back to the topic (the ‘M’s of her story), I stayed mute until it was time to say goodbye.

On the ride back home, my husband asked if I was feeling well. It was not like me to stay so quiet through the evening. I explained to him what had happened to make me so dumbstruck. And how much I now hated myself for not saying anything when confronted with such open bigotry.

Of course, we both decided that we would never see that particular couple again. But the incident got me thinking. What is the best way of dealing with people who have no compunction about openly expressing their bigotry in polite conversation?

Well, first off, silence is not an option. No matter how embarrassing it may be for you and others in the group, blatant bigotry should not go unchallenged.

At my dinner, for instance, I should have pushed back. What do you mean by ‘M’s? Do you mean ‘Muslims’? What’s wrong with saying ‘Muslim’ in that case? What is the problem if the women are in burqas? Why does that make you feel so threatened? As for where they have come from, they have been living in Mumbai for generations, unlike you, who’s just visiting!

Would it have made for an uncomfortable evening? Of course. Would it have resulted in the end of a beautiful (I’m kidding) relationship? Without a doubt. But I wouldn’t be friends with such people for all the money in the world anyway, so that was a moot point.

I know that this is easier said than done. Most of us have been brought up to be polite when in company, to make diplomatic noises when someone says something unpleasant, to try and smooth over tricky bits of conversation rather than speak home truths. Our instinct, then, is to gloss over bigoted comments, dismissing them out of hand or pretending that we never heard them in the first place. We make peace with our craven failure to engage by telling ourselves that we would never change these people’s minds in any case. So, why bother arguing with them; much better not to talk to them at all.

I can see the attraction of that approach. Not only does it make for an easier life, you can also virtue-signal to the rest of the world that you have no time for bigots and communalists.

But when we retire to the comfort zone of our own echo chambers, leaving our bigoted brethren to spew what communal poison they wish in their own sphere of influence, we contribute to making the world a much worse place with our silence. We may not be directly responsible for the bigotry that is taking over our civil society, but we are certainly complicit in its spread because of our decision to disengage.

So, I for one, have made a pledge. If I hear anyone say anything bigoted and communal – whether in real life or in the online space – I am going to step forward and say something. I am going to push back. I am going to make it clear that such views are unacceptable in a civilized society, and that those who hold them are beyond the pale. I am going to try my best to shame these people.

Silence is no longer an option. Not for me, at least. And, I do hope, it won’t be your choice either.

  

The Ex Files

How to stay friends – or at the very least, civil – after you break up

As I sit down to write this column, social media – and Pakistani TV – is awash with coverage of Reham Khan’s tell-all book about her life and short-lived marriage to Imran Khan. The book is yet to be published but even before its release, cricketer Waseem Akram (among others) has filed suit against it. And Imran Khan’s first wife, Jemima Goldsmith, has threatened that if the book is published in the UK she will sue for defamation on behalf of her son.

I don’t know how the story will have developed by the time you read this, but it doesn’t really matter. This column may have been triggered by one bitter ex-wife wrecking revenge on her ex-husband by dishing the dirt on him (allegedly, I hasten to add, I haven’t seen the book myself) but it is really about how you can prevent your ex (wife, husband, girlfriend, boyfriend) from going all bunny boiler on you.

Success is, by no means, guaranteed. But if you follow these simple rules, you will at least, have the satisfaction of knowing that you tried your best.

·       Get closure: Don’t just ‘ghost’ people once you’ve decided to excise them from your life. As in, don’t close all doors of communication and have nothing further to do with them. Accord them the courtesy of a face-to-face meeting in which you have an honest conversation about your relationship before it ends. Yes, it may get teary. It may get acrimonious. It may even get violent. But you owe it to the other person to let them have their say. And you owe it to yourself to listen.

·       Cooling-off period: Rare is the couple – married or otherwise – who can go seamlessly from being a romantic pair to becoming really good friends. No matter who broke off with whom and why, residual feelings always linger after a long and meaningful relationship. There’s wisdom in acknowledging that and allowing one another space to grow apart before you try and come to a new accommodation – if that is, in fact, what both of you want.

·       Stop re-litigating the past: If you have managed to re-establish a friendship, then stay focused on the present and the future. Stop looking back to see where you went wrong. Don’t fight about who did what to whom when you were together as a couple. Draw a line in the sand and stay on the right side of it.

·       Don’t presume on old bonds: Once you have moved on, stay in the new space that you have found. Don’t revert to old habits just because your ex is still in the vicinity or part of your extended group of friends. It is not his or her job to pick you up because you’ve had too much to drink. And nor is it your job to clean up their messes just because that’s something you always did when you were together. You are in a different space now. And the rules must be different.

·       Don’t bad mouth one another: I know, this one is hard. Its human instinct to vent when you are unhappy. And when you are angry with your partner, the temptation to slag them off to anyone who will listen is hard to resist. But resist it you must. If that seems impossible in the immediate aftermath of your break-up then set a deadline for yourself. Give yourself a week, a month, or even a couple of months to get all that bile out of your system. And then shut the hell up. Going on and on about them after all that time is just allowing them to live in your head for free. You don’t want to do that.

·       Respect their new relationships: Nobody expects you to become best friends with your ex’s new partner (least of all your ex!) but a little civility goes a long way when you’re dealing with your replacement. So say hello, be pleasant, maybe even pay him/her a compliment on their taste! But whatever else you do, don’t perform that old do-you-remember-when dance with your ex while their new partner listens in, feeling increasingly awkward with each new anecdote.

·       Don’t drag the kids into your battles: If you share children, then you are going to be stuck with your co-parent for the rest of your life, no matter what. So, whatever your problems with your ex-husband or ex-wife may be, keep them to yourselves. Your children love both of you. And they need both of you. Trying to turn them against either mom or dad is just setting them up for therapy for the rest of their lives.

·       Try and remember the good: When a relationship ends, it’s human nature to focus on its last, dying gasps. But when we do that, we forget the promise of love and romance with which it all began. So, when you are being split apart, throw your mind back to what brought you together. That may encourage you to be more loving and respectful of your partner even as you separate. And who knows, in time, it may even bring you back together as friends.

Do not disturb

We all need some me-time to get through the day; don’t apologize for it

The hours of two to four in the afternoon were sacrosanct in my childhood home, ever since I can remember. The moment the clock struck two, my mother – having finished the lunch shift in the kitchen – would retire to her bedroom and shut the door on the world. She would emerge from her siesta at 4 pm sharp, to get tea and snacks for the whole household.

But for those two hours, she was not available for anyone or anything. That was her time. And all of us kids – and the adults – understood full well that to knock on her door during this period for any reason whatsoever would bring the wrath of the Gods upon our heads.

As a child, I lived for this interlude in the day. This was the time that I could sneak out with my neighbourhood friends for a bit of rough and tumble. And so long as I got myself back home at five minutes to four, all would be well. No matter what misadventures I got up to, my mom would be none the wiser.

So as far as I was concerned, this two-hour hiatus was the highlight of the day, when I could roam unsupervised, read books that I had expressly been forbidden from touching, and generally get up to no good at all.

It’s only now that I am all grown-up and my mother has departed from this world that I think back on how precious that time must have been for her.

This was a woman who looked after a large joint family with minimal help. She cooked three meals for the household everyday (and separate food for my grandmother, who did not eat onions or garlic). She looked after two ageing in-laws, one husband, and three kids. She ironed our uniforms, got our school lunches ready, and made sure that we had done our homework. She woke early in the morning to get us off to school and then stayed up late making us strong cups of tea so that we could study late into the night.

But in the course of each mad, maddening day, she had the good sense to carve out a moment of time for herself. To this day, I don’t know what she did during those two hours. Did she have a little nap to refresh herself for the rigors of evening kitchen duty? Did she use this time to catch up on her reading? Did she sit cross-legged on the floor and meditate? Or did she do all of this – and more? I simply don’t know.

The only thing that is clear to me, with the benefit of hindsight, that it was those two hours that enabled my mother to get through the rest of the day, where she did not have a minute to call her own. It was that tiny interlude of peace and solitude that allowed her to retain her sanity. It was that breather that gave her a second wind to carry her through to the night. It was that me-time, or as some like to call it, alone-time, that gave a still point to her ever-spinning day.

Even without realizing it, I have incorporated that same habit into my own life. Just like my mother, I crave a few hours of solitude during the day, when I can be alone with my thoughts, maybe catch up on my reading, or just go for walk and empty my mind of all the clutter and white noise of modern life.

Unlike my mother, I don’t have fixed hours in the day to do that. But then, unlike her, I don’t have the demands of in-laws or a brood of children to contend with, and nor do I have an extended family to build my schedule around. Working for myself, as I do, I have the flexibility to steal a few hours out of every day for myself alone. And it is that luxury of me-time that allows me to get through even the most stressful of days without feeling overwhelmed.

No matter how hectic the day has been, if I can steal an hour at bedtime to read a few chapters of a good book, I go to sleep quite content with my lot. Even if I have a writing deadline weighing on me (in fact, especially when I have a writing deadline weighing one me), I still take the time to step away from my desk and go for a walk. And unlike my mother – who cooked so much and so often that it turned into a chore – I often end a long day by cooking a meal for my husband and myself, the gentle rhythm of chopping and stirring serving as my own kind of meditation. 

Whenever I do that, I find my thoughts straying back to my mother and her two to four pm ‘siesta’. No matter how mad the whirl of life got, she knew that she needed that time to make herself whole. And she took that time for herself, without apology, without explanation, and without the slightest trace of shame.

How I wish more women followed her lead, practicing self-care with the same patience and affection that they bestow on the care of others. Not only would they be happier for it, but so would their families.

An Inconvenient Woman

The life and death of Qandeel Baloch

“How I’m looking?” That’s the question Qandeel Baloch asked in her first viral video, writhing sexily as she pouted for the camera. Pakistan duly clicked on the link and didn’t quite like what it saw. Scratch that. They hated it. But even as the outrage flowed and the abuse got more graphic, “How I’m looking” became a catchphrase in that country, and Qandeel became a bonafide social media star – albeit one that everyone loved to hate (or so they claimed, at any rate).

Sanam Maher, a Karachi-based journalist, tells the improbable tale of this unexpected breakout star in The Sensational Life & Death of Qandeel Baloch. The book begins with the death of Qandeel, and the media frenzy that followed. And then traces her journey from her impoverished life in a small village near Multan, to a doomed first marriage at 17 (which resulted in the birth of a son, whom she abandoned), a disastrous appearance on Pakistan Idol, to the hard-scrabble existence she led as she tried to establish herself in the ‘glamour’ business, and finally, to her short-lived triumph when she became an international star.

It was not an easy haul, by any standards. Pakistan, a conservative, hide-bound society that swears by Islamic mores of propriety and modesty, had never seen anyone quite like Qandeel Baloch. There had never been a woman who had no compunctions about doing a ‘strip-tease’ for the Pakistani cricket team to encourage the players to win in a match against India (she promised to go the whole hog for Shahid Afridi if he managed to beat India). Nobody had ever posed in a skimpy outfit and sent out a video message proposing marriage to Imran Khan. Or, for that matter, released pictures of herself with a respected Islamic cleric which seemed to suggest that the two of them had got up to no good in a hotel room.

So, as is usual in such circumstances, Qandeel was dismissed as a ‘whore’, a loose woman who was bringing shame on her family, her country, her religion. She was forced off Facebook (briefly) after a concerted campaign to paint her as a blot on Pakistan. She was threatened with rape and murder. And she was inundated with abuse every single day of her life.

The only problem was that Qandeel declined to play along with this narrative. She refused to be shamed. She refused to apologize for the way she looked, the way she dressed, the things she said, or the videos she released. She was a woman who owned her own story; a woman who was comfortable in her own skin; a woman courageous enough to live the life she had created for herself.

In many other countries, she may well have gotten away with it. Sexy videos, revealing outfits, and outrageous statements are the staple of ‘social media stars’ all over the world. As Qandeel admitted in an appearance on a Pakistani TV show, she was ‘inspired’ by such Indian women as Poonam Pandey, Rakhi Sawant and Sunny Leone. And she was routinely described as the ‘Kim Kardashian of Pakistan’ in both local and international media.

But while all Poonam Pandey and Rakhi Sawant had to contend with was being the butt of cruel jokes in India, Qandeel had to deal with actual hatred and contempt, not just from Pakistani society and media, but also her own brothers, one of whom ended up killing her for the family ‘honour’. While Sunny Leone could follow up a porn career in America by forging a new mainstream avatar in Bollywood, Qandeel was doomed to being dismissed as a ‘beghairat aurat’, a woman with no honour, forever beyond the pale of polite society.

It is tempting to speculate what Qandeel Baloch’s fate would have been if she was born in India rather than Pakistan. Would she still be alive today, putting up risible videos on Youtube, clocking up millions of likes, even as people laughed at her rather than with her? Would she have achieved mainstream stardom if she had fulfilled her ambition of starring in Bigg Boss? Would she have become the new Sunny Leone in our lives and on our screens?

But this is not a story about India. It is a story about Pakistan, and Maher tells it with journalistic rigor and creative flair, pulling together several strands with deceptive ease.

And like all good writers, Maher doesn’t restrict herself to telling the tale of the transformation of a young girl who was born Fouzia Azeem but turned herself into Qandeel Baloch. Instead, she uses the prism of Qandeel’s transmogrification to tell the story of a slice of Pakistan itself, through the medium of different characters.

There’s Khushi Khan, a model coordinator in Islamabad whose family lost everything in the 2005 earthquake, and who had scrambled to make a living ever since, dealing bravely with all the misogyny and sexism she encounters along the way. There’s Nighat Dad, the founder of Digital Rights Foundation (DRF) based in Lahore, which helps women deal with cyber harassment. And then, there’s the handsome ‘chaiwallah’, Arshad Khan, whose picture, taken at his humble tea stall, goes viral and changes his life.

But shining through all these stories is the shimmering figure of Qandeel Baloch, the quicksilver star who burnt all too briefly before being snuffed out for being far too bright.

  

What's in a name?

If Sonam Kapoor wants to adopt the Ahuja surname, it is nobody’s business but her own

Question: Why did Sonam Kapoor change her name to Sonam Kapoor Ahuja after she got married?

There is only one correct answer to that question: because she wanted to.

She wants to be known as Sonam Kapoor Ahuja from now on. And it is not our business to second-guess her or to offer helpful (I jest, of course) commentary on how her decision is a strike against gender equality and an obsequious nod to the patriarchy. Nor do we need fulminating think pieces on how this one decision to take her husband’s name and add it to her own somehow disqualifies Sonam from being a feminist – and is, in fact, a betrayal of the feminist causes she espoused all along.

For one thing, the name that we describe as Sonam’s own, the one she gave up in favour of her husband’s, is also the gift of another man: her father, Anil Kapoor. So, how would keeping it strike a blow against the patriarchy, when the name – quite literally – was bestowed upon her by the patriarch?

Can you see the logic in that convoluted piece of reasoning? No, me neither.

Whether you stick with the surname of your father or take your husband’s, it is still a man’s name you are sticking next to your own. So, why should one be a feminist choice and the other a kick in the rear of the feminist movement?

The short answer is that none of this matters – or more correctly, none of this should matter. If we all agree – and I hope we do – that feminism is about the freedom to make your own life decisions, to choose freely how you want to live your life, and yes, to make up your own mind how you wish to be styled, then every woman is entitled to make the choice that feels right for her. And even if you don’t agree with that choice, it is not for you or anyone else to shame her for it. That is not how a sisterhood works.

In fact, the last thing women need as they go about negotiating a tough world is to have the burden of prescriptive feminism placed on their already overburdened shoulders. We have quite enough on our plates without having a heavily annotated to-do and please-don’t list thrust down our throats as well.

And frankly, when you think about it, how is this prescriptive feminism any different from the demands that the patriarchy places upon us? Just as it was disempowering when women were forced to take on the names of their husband the moment they married, it is equally infantilizing to insist that they must stick with their birth names even if they don’t want to – on pain of having their feminist credentials cancelled by the Surname Police.

In that sense, there is no difference between the patriarchy and prescriptive feminism. Both of them want to dictate how we should live our lives, how we should behave, what we should and should not do, to fall within accepted parameters of approved behavior. So, why should we seek to cast off the bonds of one only to accept the constraints of the other?

If you ask me, we should refuse to acquiesce to the demands of both and live our lives just as we want to. And call ourselves whatever we damn well please. If we want to stick with our maiden names (as they are still rather quaintly called) then we should do so. If we want to be known by our married names, then we are free to do. In neither case, do we owe any explanations or justifications to anyone else.

There may be a dozen different reasons why women choose to stick with their father’s surname: they like the way it sounds; they already have a flourishing career in which they are known by that name; they don’t want to change their bylines or brand names; they don’t want the whole palaver of changing passports, Aadhar cards, bank accounts, Pan numbers and what have you.

And there are plenty of different reasons why women choose to adopt the surname of their husband. They may do it in the first initial flush of romantic love. Once they have children they may want the whole family unit to have the same name (this is also for practical reasons, as any woman who has gone through passport control with a young child who has a different surname than her own can tell you). Some of them may drop their own surnames altogether. Others may chose to hyphenate them with their husband’s.

It really depends on the woman in question and what she thinks works best for her. And that is exactly how it should be.

Which is why I refuse to join the Brigade of Outraged Feminists attacking Sonam Kapoor Ahuja with brickbats and pitchforks because she chose to change her name. She could style herself as Princess Consuela Bananahammock for all I care. It’s her life. It’s her decision. It’s her choice. It’s her name.

And it is nobody’s business but her own.

  

Baby blues

For all those new moms feeling inadequate when they measure themselves against Amazing Kate, I have one word of advice: Don’t

Did you happen to catch a glimpse of Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge (aka Kate Middleton), as she emerged from the hospital, having given birth to her third child? Wearing a bright red dress with a white lace collar (a homage to her mother-in-law apparently; it turns out that Diana, Princess of Wales, had worn a similar outfit when she left the hospital after having Prince Harry), Catherine held her baby boy in her arms, proud husband William by her side, and smiled and waved for the media assembled to record this moment. Her make-up was immaculate, her hair blow-dried to perfection. She wore glossy tights and – get this! – had her trademark nude stilettoes on as she sashayed out a mere seven hours after giving birth. 

Yes, you read that right. Seven hours after pushing an eight pound seven ounces human out of her body, the Duchess was ready for her photo-call, smiling and waving, and then smiling and waving some more. The only sign she had ever been pregnant was the little bump protruding through her Jenny Packham custom-made dress. But other than that, Catherine looked perfect. No swollen ankles. No back fat. No big bum. In fact, seeing her look as svelte as ever, an unworthy thought popped up in my head: Did she have a baby or a burger?

Well, she had a baby all right. Though you wouldn’t have thought it to look at her. But there were plenty of new moms online who weren’t having this bit of post-partum perfection stuck in their faces. Talk show host Jimmy Kimmel’s wife, Molly McNearney, who also had a baby recently, posted a picture of a radiantly smiling Catherine and William, tweeting alongside, “Let’s keep this real for the moms. The Duchess is wearing a diaper.” 

Molly was not the only one trying to inject a dose of reality into the proceedings. Social media was awash with pictures posted by women of how they looked hours after they had their babies. Suffice it to say, the contrast with the fragrant Duchess was rather stark. These ladies looked beautiful no doubt, with the first flush of motherhood lighting up their faces. But they also looked like they were just surfacing from a pool of pain and exhaustion. Not what anyone would think about if they saw Kate waving serenely from the doorstep of the Lindo Wing seven hours after giving birth (did I mention it was just seven hours after?).

But those comparisons didn’t exactly make sense. Catherine, a fitness freak, remained remarkably slim (except for the neat little baby bump) throughout her pregnancy. She had a natural birth and a short labour. This was her third child so she had the routine down pat. She had a dedicated team of hair and make-up people who whizzed in even as she bonding with her new-born son to perform those magic tricks on her. But even so, there was something impressive about her ‘jolly hockey sticks’ approach to new motherhood, popping out the baby, and then popping out looking all rested and ready for her close-up.

Looking at her as she performed for the cameras, though, I couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for the Duchess. The other women who gave birth in that hospital could spend time tucked away in a post-birth haze with their families and not worry about the world outside. They could just slip into a tracksuit or a pair of baggy jeans and a T-shirt when it was time to take their baby home. They didn’t need to bother to put on a full face of make-up or have their hair blow-dried. And they didn’t need to run the gauntlet of the international media just to take their baby back home.

Yes, Catherine did make it all look rather easy. In at 6 am with labour pains. Baby out at 11 am. Hair and make-up at 4 pm. Out of the hospital at 6 pm for a photo-call with baby and husband. Back at home by 6.30 pm. It was all in a day’s work for the Duchess. 

Maybe she really is the Superwoman she appears to be. And none of this is even remotely challenging for her. But I do feel for the other new mums who are watching and wondering just how this is possible. How is that they can barely make it to the shower on their own, while Catherine is half-way to Kensington Palace? Why do they look like they went ten rounds with Mike Tyson, while she looks as if she spent a couple of hours at a spa? 

Well, all I can tell these ladies is: just admire the woman for what she is (or at least appears to be; for all you know, she is gnashing her teeth behind that smile until she gets out of range of those cameras) and don’t set yourself up in comparison with her. She is the future Queen of England. She has all the help in the world to look like a million bucks even when she is still hurting from giving birth.

The only thing you have in common with her is that you both have new babies. Just rejoice in that fact. Breathe in the scent of your new-born. Cuddle him/her as if your life depended on it. Stuff your face with cake to celebrate. And yes, keep those diapers handy – both for the baby and for you!

Summer Reading

Now that you have some time off, here’s a list of books to keep you entertained

This is the time of year when newspapers and magazines like to recommend what they coyly term ‘beach reads’. As in fluffy, wispy books that don’t demand much of you, so you can idly read them as you drink up another Mojito or Pina Colada by the sea or poolside.

Well, the books that I am about to recommend for your summer reading are nothing like that. No, no, don’t be scared. They are not thick, dense tomes that will leave you bored or just depressed. Not at all. These are books that tell a cracking good story, that will keep you entertained and engaged until the last page, and will go perfectly well with whatever sugary drink you choose to drink as you dry off after a swim. So, read on – and then read up. And have a great summer break!

The Only Story by Julian Barnes

Yes, you’re quite right. The Only Story (worth telling) is a story about love. More specifically, it is about a May-December romance between Susan, a woman of 48 and Paul, a boy of 19, related in retrospect by the old man he becomes. The first section is related in the first person by Paul. In the second section, the narration shifts to the second person as things begin to unravel. And the third and final section segues effortlessly into third person as Paul looks back on life. As a study of young love, it is heartbreakingly accurate. As a memoir, it is unbearably poignant. And as a novel, it is quite brilliant. But then, you would expect nothing less from Julian Barnes.

Lullaby by Leila Slimani

If you are a parent of young children, you might find that this gory tale of a nanny who snaps and kills her young charges (no, that doesn’t merit a spoiler alert, the fate of those two kids is apparent from the start) cuts a little close to the bone. But if you can power through, you will be rewarded by a book that is a work of dark beauty, with the slow breakdown of the nanny – and the events that contribute to it – laid out in excruciating detail. It makes for difficult reading sometimes, but who said good literature has to be easy?

Tangerine by Christine Mangan

The best way to describe this book is as a re-fashioning of Patricia’s Highsmith’s The Talented Mr Ripley with an all-female lead cast, as seen through the camera lens of Alfred Hitchcock. The novel is set in Tangiers (hence the title, Tangerine) that serves as the location of a reunion of two college mates. Alice Shipley is the young wife living there with her husband, when her old friend Lucy Mason (with whom she had a messy falling out) drops in unannounced. The story is told in the alternating voices of Alice and Lucy, neither of whom is an entirely reliable narrator. That sets up the shifting sands on which this novel rests, leaving the reader bewildered and enthralled in turn. 

Asymmetry by Lisa Halliday

As debut novels go, this one is unexpectedly assured, pulling together two narrative strands that seem entirely unconnected until we come to the very end. The first story is that of a young woman in her 20s who works in publishing and falls into a love affair with a famous writer in his 70s, Ezra Blazer (Halliday herself had an affair with the much older Philip Roth when she was around that age; so there is no escaping the autobiographical allusions). The relationship is, by its very nature, asymmetrical (hence the title, one assumes) and we can tell at the beginning itself that it won’t end well. The second story is that of an Iraqi-American who is stopped at immigration in London on his way back to Iraq, and who tells us his story in flashback. How do these two halves make a whole? Well, you’ll have to read the book and find out.


An Ordinary Man’s Guide to Radicalism by Neyaz Farooquee

The sub-title best summarizes what this memoir is about: Growing Up Muslim in India. The book is sparked by the Batla House Encounter in 2008, which took place only a few doors away from where the author – a student at Jamia University – lived in those days, and how those events affected him. It is from this starting point that Farooquee goes back and forth in time to tell us his story, which begins in a small village in Bihar, from which he is sent forth to study and live in Delhi as a small boy. Written in a simple yet lucid style, this book is required reading for those who want an insight into what it means to grow up Muslim in India.

The Woman in the Window by A.J. Finn

This psychological thriller – as is evident from the title – owes a lot to the oeuvre of Alfred Hitchcock. The protagonist is yet another unreliable narrator (they seem to be highly popular these days), child psychologist Dr Anna Fox, who has become agoraphobic after an accident and spends her entire time locked up in her apartment. She spends her time taking pictures of her neighbours until one day she witnesses a murder in a facing apartment. The problem is that no one will believe her; and she is not entirely sure she believes herself. So far, so Hitchcockian you might say. But then, Finn delivers a final twist that you never see coming. And I guarantee, it will leave you winded – and wanting to read the book all over again to see what you missed.

Sometimes, life is just a walk in the park...

Actually, these days, it’s more of a photography session!

Spring is always the best time to take a walk in Delhi’s Lodi Gardens. The flowers are blooming, the trees are alive, the grass is greener than ever, and the birdsong is enough to make your heart soar. This spring though, as I walked briskly down its little winding roads, I realized that while I hadn’t been looking Lodi Gardens had turned into a photography studio rather than the neighbourhood park I remembered it as. 

To be fair, over the years, you could always find the odd couple posing for their engagement/wedding photos, looking self-conscious and embarrassed in all their finery amidst the joggers in their track pants and T-shirts. But this was something entirely different.

As I entered through the Ashoka Gate, the first thing I saw was a heavily-pregnant lady, wearing a maroon empire-line maxi-dress, posing in silhouette against one of the many monuments Lodi Gardens is littered with. Kneeling in front of her was a man who I presumed was her husband, his hand placed proprietorially on her baby bump. Immortalizing this moment for posterity (and for the progeny) was a burly bearded photographer wielding a DSLR camera like it was an offensive weapon, while his two assistants held up sheets of white thermacol at different angles to provide the best light.

I smiled indulgently at this tableau and moved on. I couldn’t have gone more than thirty paces when yet another photography session caught my eye. This time it was a couple who looked to be in their early 30s, accompanied by a whole team of hair and make-up people, who had opened their little suitcase of products and were conducting urgent repairs on the principals. Once the touch-up was done, one of the photographer’s assistants handed the couple a golden balloon in the shape of the number one. They hoisted it up between them, smiled widely and said ‘cheese’ to celebrate what I can only hope was their first anniversary. 

Fifty yards on, another love story was being memorialized on camera. This time, it was clearly a proposal, or rather, the re-enacting of one. The boy was in the now-mandatory position of being down on one knee, holding up a ring box in his right hand, while he held out his left arm in what can only be described as a Shah Rukh Khan pose. The girl was doing her best Sushmita-Sen-wins-Miss-Universe impression, holding her hands to her mouth in mock-shock and faux-awe. They held this pose for absolute ages as the photographer captured it from every conceivable angle. Given how much effort they had put into the ‘proposal’ I was sure that their marriage would be the stuff of legend.

And thus it went, photo-session after photo-session, as I tried my best to meet my target of 10,000 steps. And not just that day either; this wa pretty much par for the course every single time I went for a walk in Lodi Gardens.

As I trudged along, I tried to figure out what accounted for this sudden urge for ordinary, middle-class folk to conduct ‘glam shoots’ to commemorate some moment or the other. And then, it suddenly hit me: Instagram!

That’s where all these photos were headed; to be posted on ‘Insta’ with a plethora of hashtags for their family and friends to ‘like’ and comment on. And everyone knows that when it comes to Instagram, you have to look your very best, the photo has to be professional quality, so why not hire experts to do the job? Sure, it can’t be cheap. But hey, a good photo will live on forever on Insta; and who knows, if it is striking enough, it may even go viral!

I guess this was bound to happen one day. A movement that began with everybody taking pictures of their breakfast, lunch and dinner, and the odd fancy meal at an expensive restaurant was bound to end up with heavily-curated pictures of seminal moments of our lives, all subtly highlighted and posted on Insta with a suitable filter (X-pro or Lo-fi, anyone?). After all, if you post innumerable photos showing off the beautiful locations of your summer/winter vacations, then how can you ignore important milestones like proposals, anniversaries, pregnancies, etc.? And surely, such landmark moments rate more than the usual ‘selfies’ (even if they are taken with a selfie-stick). No, you need to call in the professionals at such times.

So, I guess that’s why my favourite neighbourhood spot for long, lonely walks has been transformed into Photography Central. There are more glittery stilettoes in evidence than sturdy running shoes. There are more shiny dresses around than there are jogging pants. And there are more hair and make-up people around than actual exercise enthusiasts.

And you know what? I love it!

I love watching those young lovers making gooey eyes at one another. I love seeing the look of pride in a young man’s eyes as he cradles his wife’s pregnant belly. And, of course, I love the corny proposal scenarios that play out every day in front of me.

I don’t know how much these photography sessions cost (and I, for one, would never pay good money for them). But I do know that for sheer entertainment value alone, they are priceless. 

Homing In

It’s a house when you move into it; you have to turn it into home

What makes a house into a home? That is a question I have grappled with over the last couple of decades, ever since I moved to Delhi and began living in an endless succession of teeny-tiny apartments. 

I still retain the fondest of memories of the first house I moved into in the capital, a small barsati in Defence Colony, where the enormous terrace was more than adequate recompense for the cramped rooms. But despite my love for my first Delhi home, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of achievement when I could finally afford a ‘proper’ flat, even if it was rented. And moving into a house of my own came with its own sense of joy – and relief (as anyone who has had to shift homes every two years when the lease is up will understand only too well).

Looking back now, I often wonder what was the moment when these living spaces went from being a ‘house’ to becoming my ‘home’? Was there a magic moment when that transformation occurred? Or was it a slow and steady process that crept up on me while I was busy doing something else? And what were the elements that went into this process?

What, to go back to my original question, makes a ‘house’ a ‘home’? 

In my case, the process begins with paint. Every house I ever moved into had its walls painted that regulation, anodyne off-white. A nothing shade, it depressed me just to look at it. So, the first thing I did was splash some colour on the walls. Dusky rose pink for the drawing room. A bright sunny yellow for the den. A brooding blue for the bar. Soothing tones of grey and lavender for the bedroom. And the odd splash of lime green to add interest to a boring corner. 

Everything looks so much better once the walls come alive with colour. The house is on its way to begin looking like a home – my home.

And then, come the books. Only once I have unpacked the many cartons containing what I rather grandiosely term my ‘library’ and arranged its contents on the shelves according to my preferred scheme (thrillers in one section, biographies in another, food books in a nook near the kitchen, and so on), do I start feeling truly at home. It’s like when you are surrounded by old friends in a new, unfamiliar place; their presence alone is enough to make you feel more at ease. That’s how books make me feel in a new house.

But that is just the starting point. The circle is only complete once I have identified a favourite corner (or a favourite chair or couch) to read in. Once I’ve found that little nook, spent a day (or two) ensconced in it, a steaming cup of coffee at hand, I know that I have found another home for myself.

Next comes the kitchen, which is – when you think about it – the heart of the house. So, the third step in turning a house into a home is to get the kitchen up and running. The spice rack must be stocked with everything from fresh haldi to Herbs de Provence, from Chinese five-spice powder to Mexican seasoning, from powdered lemon grass to sachets of bouquet garni. All my pots and pans – the cast-iron ones for cooking meat, the non-stick ones for healthy sautéing, the large one for making a cassoulet, the small one for the perfect omelet, and so on and on and on – must be within easy reach. The fridge and freezer must be heaving with cold meat, Greek yoghurt, cheese (the smellier the better), and ready-to-cook frozen aloo tikkis (don’t ask!).

Once all of this is in place, and more importantly, I have used all my pots and pans and assorted ingredients to cook a meal in that brand-new kitchen, well that’s when I begin to feel at home.

The last and final step has nothing to with the house, and everything to do with the neighbourhood. Strolling on the streets to get the lay of the land; walking in the local park every evening; buying vegetables from the subziwallah around the corner; getting a takeaway cappuccino from the nearby coffee-shop. A couple of weeks of this and the area – not just the house – begins to feel like home.

Of course, the process is different for everyone. And each one of us has his or her own criterion for deciding on what makes a house a home. A friend of mine insists that it’s only when the newly-painted walls start showing a stain or two, the kids spill some stuff on the sofa and the dog chews up one end of the carpet, does she feel that she’s finally made the home her own. 

For others, making a home means having friends and family over for an evening of food, drinks and laughs. Some feel at home only after they have an elaborate Grihapravesh puja. And then, there are those who need to generate enough clutter before they can call a place ‘home’.

But whatever the process, it invariably involves putting our own special stamp on the space we occupy. At the end of the day, like all animals, we need to mark our territory to truly make it our own.

Love stories

The grand passions of the last generation of stars seem to be a thing of the past

So, Jennifer Aniston is single again – a few weeks ago she and her husband Justin Theroux put out a joint statement to say that they have decided to separate. Cue, a hundred thousand violins screeching sadly across the globe, to provide a musical counterpoint to our collective cry of ‘Poor old Jen’. 

Yes, again. Poor old Jen! The phrase that first reverberated through the world when Brad Pitt left her for Angelina Jolie; the words that were used to describe her as she went from one doomed love affair to the other; they were pulled out yet again as another Aniston marriage came to an untimely end.

And close on the heels of the ‘Poor old Jen’ pity-fest came the ‘Jen and Brad forever’ narrative. After all, the argument went, both Aniston and Pitt were single now. He had been dumped by the femme fatale he left his wife for. So, what better ending for their love story than that they reunite – this time for good.

It mattered little to media outlets and fans on Twitter that Jen and Brad have long since moved on from their starter marriage. It’s been more than 12 years since they were last together and in that time period they have (between them) notched up two spouses, six children and three – or is it five? – boyfriends. 

But who cares about that? As far as the world at large is concerned, the Jen-Brad love story is one for the ages. And it seems blatantly unfair that it should end as it did. (Of course, there are as many people who feel the same way about the ‘Brangelina’ story and are waiting with bated breath for a reconciliation. But that, as the saying goes, is another story.)

What is it about some relationships that they capture the public imagination so vividly? Or, in other words, why do we get so invested in some love stories, though the principals are strangers to us and likely to remain so? Why do some lovers inspire us so that we cannot let them go, even long after they have left one another? 

I first remember asking myself these questions when that great screen and stage actor, Richard Burton, passed away in 1984. When he died, he was married to his third and last wife, Sally, and it had been eight years since he broke up with Elizabeth Taylor, his former wife (twice-over; they married, divorced, remarried, and divorced yet again). But if you had gone by the media coverage alone, you would have thought that it was Liz Taylor, not Sally, who was the grieving widow. 

Much the same thing happened when Taylor herself died in 2011. She had been married eight times to seven men, and had acquired and lost two husbands after she divorced Burton the second and last time. But her obituaries concentrated not so much on the many husbands or her four children, but on the great love of her life, Richard Burton, who wrote her those amazing love letters, bought her the most spectacular jewelry, and loved her to his last, dying breath.

Closer home, you can see the same phenomenon at work. Catch any film awards show and you will find that as surely as night follows day, the camera will pan to Amitabh Bachchan in the audience when Rekha is on stage (and vice versa) to get a ‘reaction shot’. Sometimes it will pan a little further to focus on Jaya Bachchan, as she sits poker-faced, knowing full well that the slightest grimace or frown will launch a thousand gossip items.

Watching these shows, it seems hard to believe that the Amitabh-Jaya-Rekha love triangle ended about two decades ago (at least) given the iron grip it still has on our fevered imagination. 

It says something about how fleeting and ephemeral the relationships of today’s stars seem by comparison that we really don’t feel too strongly about any pairing. Does anyone really care that Deepika Padukone had moved on from Ranbir Kapoor and is now dating Ranveer Singh? Does anyone even remember that Katrina Kaif and Salman Khan were once an item? And despite the media’s best efforts to whip up some hysteria about ‘Saifeena’, the Kareena and Saif Ali Khan coupling didn’t exactly set the world on fire.

The only love story that has come close to capturing the public imagination in recent years is the one between Anushka Sharma and Virat Kohli.  And that may well be because between the two of them, they covered the two great passions of Indians: movies and cricket. So, their star power expanded exponentially when they came together, and set the world aflame. 

But that’s as far as grand passions go for this generation. Other than that there’s really not much to get too excited about, with the same names hooking up and unhooking from one another in an endless round of romantic musical chairs. 

So, what explains the difference? Is it that the celebrities of today no longer have the same oversized love stories like their predecessors did, so they fail to light up our collective cerebral cortex? Or have the stars themselves lost their lustre in a world that moves on far too quickly to the next glittery thing? 

I really don’t know what it is. But I do know it is something I will be thinking about – especially once the award season gets going, with its hardy perennial of the ‘Amitabh-Rekha-Jaya watch’.