The case of the missing handbag

Margaret Thatcher and Hina Rabbani Khar may have made them famous; but Indian women politicians are not fans

You’ve got to hand it to Meryl Streep. After bringing the glacial fashion editor based on Anna Wintour to life in The Devil Wears Prada, she’s now appearing on our screens as the redoubtable Mrs Thatcher, the Iron Lady who is as far removed from Wintour’s Ice Queen as anyone could possibly be. And yet, such is Streep’s ability to morph herself into any life form that rave reviews have already starting pouring in for her portrayal of the former British Prime Minister.

What’s truly uncanny, though, is how much Meryl actually looks like Margaret in the film. There are the tweedy twin-sets, the blouses with a prim bow at the neck, the sturdy shoes, the impossibly bouffant hair. And then, of course, there’s the handbag.

Aha, the handbag. The accessory that was such a part of Thatcher’s look that it became the stuff of legend. Some speculated that the Prime Minister always carried a handbag in an effort to evoke a subliminal association with the Queen. Elizabeth II is never seen in public without a handbag dangling off her arm even though she famously carries no money (she has been known to refresh her lipstick at the dinner table though, so maybe the bag is for an emergency stash of make-up). And there seemed to be something to this theory as Thatcher started becoming more and more Queen-like as her reign wore on, even using the royal ‘we’ to refer to herself (as in “We have just become a grandmother”).

But, more pertinently, the handbag perennially hanging off her arm – ready to be wielded as an offensive weapon if the need ever arose – became something of a metaphor for Thatcher’s bullying style of politics. And those ministers and partymen who became victims of her iron-fist-in-an-iron-glove were described as having being ‘handbagged’, as in clouted about the head by her well-structured Asprey bag.

Such was the power of that image that even now, many decades after the event, we find it hard to picture Margaret Thatcher without her trademark handbag, swinging ominously by her side. It’s as much a part of her image as the poshed-up vowels, the helmet-like hair, and the slash of red lipstick. It signaled a certain purposefulness; it showed everyone that she meant business.

Yes, a handbag can say a lot simply by hanging off someone’s arm – and sometimes it says just as much by being conspicuously absent.

Look around you in our own political sphere. What do you see? I’ll tell you what you don’t: expensive handbags on the arms of our women politicians (with the exception of Mayawati, but more on her later).

Sonia Gandhi, the most powerful women politician in India by a long way, is never seen in public carrying a handbag. Sometimes when she attends AICC meetings or Congress plenary sessions, she carries a mannish briefcase bulging with papers and folders. But otherwise, her arms stay empty, swinging silently by her side, no matter where she is: speaking at an election rally, taking part in a political function, making an appearance at a wedding, or even attending Parliament.

Or take Jayalalitha, the chief minister of Tamil Nadu. She is always impeccably turned out like the nicely brought up, convent school girl that she is. Perfectly groomed hair, flawless complexion, beautifully draped saris (sometimes with capes to match) – but no handbag. In Delhi, chief minister Sheila Dixit shows a similar disdain for arm candy of any sort. And then, there’s the fiery Mamata Banerjee, chief minister of Paschim Bongo, who also refuses to carry a handbag (which is just as well, because she is the most likely to use it to clobber some hapless soul senseless when in one of her famous fits of temper).

All these ladies have very differing styles of politicking. But the one thing that unites them is that the handbag is always missing. It’s almost as if they see it as an emblem of frivolity which would work against their being taken seriously in the public sphere.

Given this background, it’s perhaps easy to understand why we reacted with such outrage when the Pakistan foreign minister, Hina Rabbani Khar, came to visit us with an enormous Birkin bringing up the rear. The bag took on a life of its own, occupying pride of place in every photo-op and effortlessly eclipsing poor old S.M. Krishna. And before you could say Hermes, a Birkin backlash was in full force. Khar’s judgement -- carrying an uber-expensive handbag on a state visit when she was representing a less-than-prosperous Pakistan – was called into question. And she herself came perilously close to being dismissed as a piece of fluff as a consequence, with her handbag doubling up as a badge of shame.

But strangely enough, the only Indian woman politician who makes a fetish of carrying a handbag has escaped that fate. Uttar Pradesh chief minister Mayawati is seldom seen without a designer bag hanging off her arm. In fact, one of her many statues had to be redone because the artist had omitted to graft a handbag on to her arm. But unlike Khar who had to deal with such derision because of her fondness for expensive leather goods, Mayawati has managed to sell her designer bags as a symbol of Dalit empowerment, a sign that she’s come a long way, baby.

Yes, as far as political messaging goes, it’s all in the bag – both when it’s hanging off someone’s arm or missing in action.

True to type?

Is it really necessary to slot people into one box or the other?

It never ceases to amaze me how quick we are to stereotype people. It could be based on how they dress, where they went to school, in which area they live, where they holiday, the accent in which they speak. In fact, almost any – and every – detail about a person is used to slot him in one category or the other.

If you went to a posh boarding school like Doon or Mayo, then you must be a child of privilege, a spoilt rich kid coasting along a path smoothed by Daddy’s millions. If you studied in an Ivy League college or in either Oxford or Cambridge, then you are an elitist snob who could never understand the concerns of common folk.

If you dress in a salwar-kameez or a sari, then you must be a behenji; if you wear a short skirt or a tight top then you must be a slut who is up for it; if you are into computers you must be a nerd; if you are fat you must be greedy; if you wake up late in the morning you must be lazy.

At one time or another, all of us resort to this kind of shorthand. Punjabi = loud and crude (I guess I can say that without fear being a loud and crude Punjabi myself). Bengali = ineffectual but intellectual. South Indian = brainy bureaucrat. Sindhi = crooked businessman. Gujarati = canny stock-exchange whiz. And so on.

Our propensity to stereotype people was brought home to me anew lately, thanks to my recent experiences on Twitter.

A couple of Pakistan-related tweets (I am as hawkish on the subject as you can get without turning into Arnab Goswami – no relation, I hasten to add) brought in such a flood of responses from rabid Hindutva types that I spent the rest of the day explaining that in my book anti-Pakistan does not equal anti-Muslim.

A series of anti-Shashi Tharoor tweets elicited much abuse on the lines of “You bloody BJP so-and-so, what do you know anyway?” as if nobody could have an independent view on the subject without subscribing to one political party or the other.

But what was far more disturbing was one lengthy exchange I had with another tweeter about a post on my blog. The piece was about my reaction to the ban on the burkha in some European countries and this lady wrote to say that she couldn’t believe that someone who wrote about Hermes scarves and Louis Vuitton bags could also write about such serious issues as the burkha.

Well, why ever not?

Why should we slot people into these little categories and take the view that they couldn’t possibly do anything else? It is possible to be interested in both fashion and finance, to have a view on both peep-toe shoes and politics, to be moved by both babies and Bach, to be a champion of women’s rights and yet oppose the Women’s Reservation Bill.

And yes, it is possible to write about both bags and burkhas.

Nonetheless, many of us find it hard to wrap our minds around the fact that every person is a sum of many parts. And while one of these parts may lust after a pair of red-soled pumps, another might want to embrace a red-hued political philosophy; one part may like the uplifting sound of a choral opera, another might be a fiend for hard-core heavy metal; one might have a strong streak of political activism while the other loves trawling glossy magazines for the latest celebrity gossip.

But few people are willing to take this idea on board. After all, it’s so much simpler to just stick people in one bracket or the other. It makes life much easier, doesn’t it?

So, those who read romantic novels must be frustrated in love and looking for the excitement they could never find in real life within the pages of a book. Detective stories and thrillers are for worthless, frivolous folk who would benefit for having their noses stuck in an improving biography or two. And classics of English literature are for those with intellectual pretensions, who like to pretend that they are too good for pulp fiction.

I should know how this goes. Over the years, I have taken a fair amount of flack over my reading habits. One former employer went into paroxysms of laughter when he saw me reading Georgette Heyer at an airport lounge. Only when no less an author than Amitav Ghose told him (much later) how great Heyer was at evoking an era, did he stop taking the mickey out of me. (Not that I cared; I am the kind who feels no shame in reading a lurid paperback in public.)

These days, some of my more politically-correct friends make much fun of the fact that among the many news sites I visit every day (Times Online, The Guardian, The Daily Beast, Huffington Post among others) is the Daily Mail’s online version. Suffice it to say that the words ‘Enoch Powell’ have been thrown around and on one occasion I was even likened to the Sikh who joined the BNP (no, seriously, I kid you not).

But you know what? I really don’t care. As far as I am concerned, this kind of stereotyping says more your prejudices than mine. And no, I wouldn’t dream of sticking you into one box or the other.