Story time

Here’s a list of my best reads of 2018 – happy reading!

This is the last time I get to talk to you this year. The next time I appear on these pages, we will be into 2019. But before I wish you a Happy New Year, I would like to share some of my happier moments of 2018 with you. And – as some of you may have guessed – they revolved around reading.

So here, in no particular order of importance, are some of my best reads of 2018. If you haven’t read them already, pick up a copy and enjoy them over the holiday season. And Happy Reading to all of you!

Becoming, Michelle Obama

This is, quite simply, a brilliant book. By now, everyone knows the highlights of Michelle Obama’s life. But what this elegant, evocative, and extremely frank autobiography gives us is the real woman behind the image. The young girl who grew up with so little and yet managed to go to Princeton and Harvard. The high-flying lawyer who gave up her big-bucks job to do something more meaningful. And then there is her love story with Barack Obama, the man who would change the course of her life, told with a sometimes startling honesty.

The Other Woman, Daniel Silva

Gabriel Allon, one of my favourite fictional spies, is back in the centre of action in this new thriller. The plot will seem familiar to dedicated readers of spy fiction. There is a mole (a double agent) ensconced in the higher ranks of the British intelligence service. And the only way to identify this mole is by raiding the memories of an old woman who is the key to the mystery. But Allon is more than equal to the task, though it does take its toll on his tired and ageing bones.

Lethal White, Robert Galbraith

While this book could have done with a little editing given that it runs to some 600-odd pages (but then, who would dare take a pencil to the work of the great JK Rowling, writing here as Robert Galbraith?), it still qualifies as a great read. The novel-like spread allows the characters of Cormoran Strike and his partner Robin Ellacott to develop in complexity and scope. So much so that you don’t really mind that the murder mystery at the heart of the story takes a long time coming.

Lullaby, Leila Slimani

This is not an easy read. The book opens on a murder scene. Two children are dead, at the hand of their nanny, their bodies discovered by the mother. The novel then goes back in time, tracing the events that led to this bloody, macabre scene. How did a nanny who seemed devoted to her charges end up killing them? What were the petty humiliations and snubs that turned her against those she was meant to love and protect? You will be chilled to the core as you read on, but this is not a book you can put down no matter how much it breaks your heart.

The Wife Between Us, Greer Hendrcks and Sarah Pekkanen

On the face of it, this is a book about a jealous ex-wife who is obsessed with the fact that her ex-husband is in love with and about to marry a much younger women. But as you read on – and I will post no spoilers here – you will discover that nothing is quite as it seems. And the twist in the tale is guaranteed to take your breath away.

Ladder of Years, Anne Tyler

Delia Grinstead seems to have a great life with a doctor husband, three children, and a lovely home (even though it is being rather noisily renovated). And the family is going off for a beach holiday, along with her sisters and nieces. So, why does Delia walk away from the beach – wearing just a swimsuit and robe, carrying a tote bag with 500 dollars in it – and keep going till she reaches a small town where she can start a new life? You are going to have to read this one to find out.

Broken Ground, Val McDermid

This book marks the return of one of my favourite female fictional detectives, DCI Karen Pirie. The book opens with Pirie still in the depths of grief about her dead lover, which she attempts to walk off every night by tramping the streets of Edinburgh. That’s before she’s drawn into a cold case, when a body is dug up in a remote spot in the Highlands. But, of course, as is usual with McDermid, things soon take an unexpected turn. And Pirie had to use all her wits to come to grips with not one but two killers.

Remnants of a Separation, Aanchal Malhotra

We have had many books that tell the story of India’s Partition through the lived memories of people. But this is the first book that tells that story through the medium of the objects that people carried with them as they made the often-bloody crossing to India from what is now Pakistan. Malhotra draws out these stories with ease and retells them with the empathy that owes something to the fact that she belongs to a Partition family herself.

I could go on but as you can see, I have run out of space. So, here are just a few honourable mentions: The Word is Murder by Anthony Horowitz; Fear by Bob Woodward; and Anatomy Of A Scandal by Sarah Vaughan.

The concept of consent

The Donald Trumps in all our lives simply don't get it

Like everyone else on the planet, I have an opinion on the US election. And yes, you're right, if I had a vote, it would go to Hillary Clinton. Because, you know, the other guy is a sexist, misogynist, self-confessed serial groper.

We all knew this stuff about Donald Trump anyway. So why did every woman across the globe have such a visceral response to his words on that infamous Access Hollywood tape? Why did they send a shiver up our collective spine? Why did First Lady Michelle Obama confess that it shook her 'to my core'?

Why did all women take the Donald Trump tape so personally?

Well, because all of us have had a Donald Trump rub up against us -- quite literally -- at one time or another.

The truth is that if you are a woman - no matter what shape, size or colour you may be, or where in the world you grew up - you will have come up against a Donald Trump at some point in your life. Or even several Donald Trumps at different points in your life.

The uncle whose 'cuddles' always made you feel uncomfortable as a child but you couldn't figure out why until you were all grown up. The neighbour who regularly brushed up against you on the common stairwell and didn't even bother to look apologetic. The faceless man who felt you up on a crowded bus, his marauding hands all over your body. The boys who stood at the street corner to shout out loud comments about parts of your body and what they would like to do with them. The work colleague always 'accidentally' touching parts of your anatomy that should remain inviolate. The boss whose eyes undressed you every time you walked into his office.

We have all known these men, these Donald Trumps, who feel entitled to grab a woman, kiss her, molest her, objectify her, treat her like a piece of meat rather than a human being. Because even in the 21st century, the medieval, feudal concept of 'droit du seigneur' -- the right of powerful men to make free with a woman's body without her consent -- is still kicking ass and grabbing female genitalia with complete insouciance.

What that Donald Trump tape did was to bring back to all women every buried memory of being violated, of having their bodily integrity breached, of being treated with disrespect, of being reduced to a sex object, of having sexual assault 'normalized' in social discourse. That was why it felt so personal.

Small wonder then that it inspired such Twitter hashtags as #NotOkay started by Canadian author Kelly Oxford, who shared four stories of her own experiences with sexual assault and encouraged other women to speak up. In less than a week, Oxford tweeted later, 30 million people had read or contributed to the #NotOkay stories while a million women had shared their stories over the course of one night alone.

But for every woman sharing her story, there were probably ten others who remained silent about past assaults on their bodies. And there was another Twitter hashtag that explained why: #WhyWomenDontReport.

Not that any woman needed that explained to her. We know all the myriad reasons women don't report sexual assault all too well: because we are embarrassed, ashamed, afraid of creating waves, terrified of being disbelieved, and mortified at the thought of being known ever after as 'that girl'.

It seems so much easier to just brush it off as just another drawback of being a woman in a man's world, to shrug it away as one of those things that women have to 'deal' with and carry on with our lives. Because if you started complaining about every such event, you probably wouldn't have the time or energy to do much else.

The more important question is why men commit sexual assault. Why do they feel entitled to feast on our body parts? And why do believe that they can get away with it?

Well the short answer is because they can. And they do. Time and time again. And one of the reasons they get away with it again and again is that women are too ashamed, too humiliated, too traumatised to call them out on it.

And because they know that even if we do, we will not be believed but blamed. What were you doing there? What were you wearing? Did you lead him on? How much had you drunk? Why were you alone with him? How come you were out so late at night? Why are you speaking up now? Why didn't you complain at the time? Why didn't you try to fight him off?

Why? Why? Why?

The questions pile up until the accuser ends up feeling like the accused. And she starts to believe that she would have been better off if she'd just shut up and put up.

Well, you know what. It is time to tell her that that's #ItsOkay to speak up. And to listen hard when she does.

Booty call

A well-rounded derrière is all the rage abroad; so when will India catch up with the trend?

"Does my bum look big in this?" We've all asked this question of our significant other at one time or another. And if we have trained them well, they always reply without missing a beat (or even looking butt-wards), "Oh no, it doesn't!"

Well, apparently, this is no longer the right answer. In a pop culture that venerates the lush behinds of Beyoncé and Nicki Minaj, which worships at the shrine of the Kim Kardardhian butt, and marvels at the well-aerobicized roundness of Michelle Obama's booty, the big bum is where it's at.

A skinny arse no longer cuts it, no matter how shapely or well contoured it is. You need more meat on your behind if you want to be seen as sexy and desirable.

If you want or get all philosophical (or do I mean sociological? Who the hell knows!) about it, the triumph of the big butt signals the mainstreaming of Black and Latino culture in the West. A generously-proportioned, well-rounded derriere, that curves out to make that much-admired S-shape is the golden standard in places as far apart as Brazil and the Bronx.

So much so that butt implants, where a silicon gel implant is inserted beneath the gluteus maximus (the bum muscle, in layman's terms), have become all the rage in South America, where you apparently lose your bikini-wearing rights unless the thong rests between two large, firm globes. Those who want to go natural, get their own fat (harvested from the thigh or belly) injected into their posterior to give it a nice, rounded shape.

The popularity of this procedure has hit now Europe and North America as well, though the ideal aspired to is more Gisele (Bundchen) than Jennifer (Lopez). But either way, the goal is the same: to fill out a pair of jeans nicely.

For some reason, though, bootylicious behinds are yet to catch on in India. Which is kind of strange given that we were the ones to fetishise voluptuous figures to begin with. Remember Vyjanthimala, all dancing eyes and swaying behind, as she grooved to such songs as Ab aage teri marzi in Devdas. Or even Asha Parekh, whose generous butt spawned a million jokes (sample: Asha Parekh goes to a temple and says, "Bhagwaan, main aap ke saamney ek bahut chhoti si aas ley key aayein hoon.")

Oh, how we laughed! Though it now turns out that the joke was on us. According to industry insiders of that era, Parekh actually had a standard-issue 'aas' which was padded out generously to create the desired silhouette of the day, so that she could stand up to the likes of the naturally-bountiful Padmini, another scorcher of that era.

This ideal of feminine beauty endured right into the Bollywood of the 70s, 80s and even 90s. Whether it was Zeenat Aman or Parveen Babi, Hema Malini or Neetu Singh, Madhuri Dixit or Sridevi, Hindi film heroines were drawn on generous lines. Their flowing maxi-dresses and chiffon saris drew maximum attention to their curves. And the obligatory ‘rain dance’ (remember Sridevi in Mr India?) added a certain frisson to the mix.

But those days of beauty and the booty are long over. Bollywood actresses today sport washboard abs not generous butts. Whether it is Kareena Kapoor or Katrina Kaif, Priyanka Chopra or Deepika Padukone, they are all slim and slender. The only one who kind of bucks the trend is Vidya Balan. And it is telling that her biggest hit in recent times was Dirty Picture in which she plays a 80s bombshell, loosely modeled on the late Silk Smitha. (Though, to be fair, Southern Indian heroines still tend to be built on more voluptuous lines even today, though their proportions have been dampened down somewhat.)

In our popular culture (and sadly, that basically translates as Bollywood) the Cult of the Big Butt has singularly failed in making an impact. I’ve thought long and hard to come up with the names of our own bootylicious celebrities, and the only one that comes to mind is Malaika Arora, whose butt is such a kick-ass performer in such song sequences as Chaiyya chaiyya and Munni badnaam hui that it deserves star billing on its own. 

If you look beyond Arora, however, all you see is an arid landscape of impossibly-small behinds, all tight and taut with the effort of doing a thousand squats a day. Our reigning stars – be they in the movies, on television, or in the music and modeling world – are all whittled down to bare bones through a combination of diet, exercise and a little light liposuction. There isn’t an average-size butt in sight, let alone a truly bootylicious behind.

And that’s a pity, if you ask me. The natural body shape of most Indian women has always been curvaceous (just look at the sculptures at Ajanta and Ellora or even Khajuraho to see what kind of idealized body shape we worshipped) and will always remain so. Wouldn’t it be lovely if we could embrace it, in all its voluptuous excess, instead of starving ourselves to conform to some outdated standard of Western beauty?

Maybe it is time that the Kareena Kapoors and Sonakshi Sinhas of our world took a cue from the likes of Beyonce and Jennifer Lopez, and reveled in their natural body types. I know that we’ve all been told that size doesn’t matter, but there are times when big is beautiful. And bigger is even better.

Are you wearing that?

Celebrating the women who found style by forgetting fashion

Is it just me, or has the fashion world gotten completely out of hand? Every four months or so, we are presented with a new look and asked, in all seriousness, to overhaul our entire wardrobes if we want to stay on trend. I am sorry, but who has the money, the time, the inclination, or even the energy to do this sort of thing, year in and year out? 

Ah, yes, of course, the professional fashionistas. You know the kind of women I mean, don’t you? The ones who dutifully ditch their skinny jeans when ‘boyfriend’ jeans come back into fashion. Who go monochrome when the catwalk does, and rush out to buy animal prints when the glossy magazines sternly instruct them to update their look. Who strap on the stilettoes when they are in fashion, slip on the ballet flats (heaving a sigh of relief, I imagine) when they come back into vogue, and veer between platforms, wedges, kitten heels, and God alone knows what else, depending on what’s ‘in’.

Speaking for myself, I can’t think of a bigger waste of time, energy and money. If something works for you, then surely, it makes sense to stick with it, no matter what the fashion world is currently salivating over. But given how women are beginning to dress like identikit versions of one another, right down to matching handbags, I guess it requires courage, and even a certain bloody-mindedness, to ignore the ‘latest’ fashions and stick to the same wardrobe year after year.

Which is why I can’t help but admire those ladies who resist the tyranny of fashion, ignore all its diktats, find their own style, and then stick to it, come bell-bottoms or high heels. As that old cliché goes, fashions may change every season but style is eternal. So here, in no particular order of importance, is my list of stylistas, who, in my reckoning, out-class the fashionistas in our midst, without even trying!

• Vidya Balan: Come rain or shine, Cannes or Kanpur, you can depend on Vidya to roll up in a sari, with three-quarter sleeve blouses, and her hair cascading down in unruly curls. You can call her a behenji or an aunty – and many people do – but does she care? Not a jot. And more power to her.
• Sonia Gandhi: You may disagree with her politics but her styling is always impeccable. Handloom saris (many of them hand-me-downs from her redoubtable mother-in-law, Indira) impeccably draped and pinned into place, sensible shoes, and no handbag, ever. This is pared-down dressing at its best, and it works like a charm.
• Rekha: The original diva. Her Kanjeevarams are the stuff of legend, the bright slash of sindoor is flaunted like a red rag to the media bulls and is a perfect match to the matte lipstick, and when it comes to jewellery, this actress clearly believes that nothing glitters quite like gold.
• Naina Lal Kidwai: The boring uniform of a black trouser suit is not for this financial powerhouse. She prefers the soft drape of a sari to camouflage those killer business instincts, her version of the iron fist in a velvet glove.
• Michelle Obama: Fashion designers from across the world may be lining up to dress the First Lady of the United States but they have to work with her own aesthetic. That means no sleeves (to show off those toned arms); empire waists to emphasise the thinnest part of her body, and hems that hover around the knee.
• Harsimrat Kaur: There is a certain charming insouciance to a modern Sikh woman whose public persona is built around a wardrobe of salwar-kameezes, with a dupatta draped firmly over her head. Stereotype her at your own peril.

And no, I don’t think it is a coincidence that all these stylistas are women of a certain age. Rare is the woman in her teens and twenties who can summon up the courage to go her own way when it comes to fashion. You need the confidence and self-knowledge that comes with age to make your own rules and stick to them, no matter what the world may say. And to know that style trumps fashion every time.

Picture perfect

When it comes to projecting a public 'image', women tend to be more successful than men

When you hear the words ‘iconic image’ what is the first picture that flashes before your mind’s eye. Is it the streak of white in a shock of curly black hair that Indira Gandhi made famous? Is the pussycat bow and structured handbag that was such an integral part of Margaret Thatcher’s persona? Is it the little black dress accessorized with layers of pearls that Coco Chanel turned into a style statement that survives to this day?

It is not a coincidence that all of the examples cited are of women. You could say that this is because we pay more attention to how women dress and present themselves whereas the style choices of men are not subject to the same scrutiny. And you could well be right.

But, if you ask me, I think this goes much further. Women who are in public life are much more aware of the image they present to the world (perhaps because they know they are being judged by it) than their male counterparts. They are more inclined and better equipped to make a statement with the way they look. And they are fully conscious of the power that such iconography carries.

Indira Gandhi’s imperious wave of white hair; those impeccably-draped saris; the rudraksh mala: it was the perfect image for a strong leader of a country that was universally perceived as being weak in that era. But such was the force of her personality when she looked down her aristocratic nose that even such world leaders as President Nixon and Henry Kissinger were left feeling like errant schoolboys.

On the other hand, Margaret Thatcher – perceived as a bit of a martinet by most people – had to soften her look to appear more sympathetic. So in came the pussycat bow while the helmet-like hair was changed to a subtle, layered style. Her string of pearls served both as a nod to her femininity and a subtle counterpoint to the power suits she wore like a uniform. And then there was the famous handbag, which seemed surgically attached to her hand, and even spawned a new term: ‘handbagging’ for the way Thatcher swept aside all opposition.

Yes, women know the power of appearances when they are striving to make a political point. Think of Benazir Bhutto, the trouser-wearing, trendy daughter of Z.A. Bhutto, in her younger, more Westernised avatar. When it came to reclaiming her political legacy, though, she took care to drape herself in the colours of the Pakistani flag. Her green salwar-kameez paired with a white dupatta draped over her head conveyed a message about her dedication to the twin values of patriotism and peace; a message that was all

the more powerful for being non-verbal.

It’s not an accident that some women evoke a certain image in our minds. Think Queen Elizabeth II and an image of a slightly matronly figure in twin-sets in block colours, accessorized with matching hats and gloves, will pop into your mind. Think Coco Chanel, and you will immediately picture a little black dress topped off with endless layers of pearls. Think Michelle Obama, and a pair of uber-toned biceps will pop up in your mind’s eye (no wonder her husband joked about her right to ‘bare arms’).

Closer home, too, it is the ladies who have a stronger public image than the men. Sonia Gandhi in her perfectly-draped handlooms; Sushma Swaraj with her trademark mangalsutra and sindoor; Mayawati in her pink salwar-kameezes; Mamata Banerjee in her ‘woman of the peepuls’ crumpled cotton saris; and Meira Kumar whose sartorial style is as unruffled as her demeanour.

Among the men, though, it is only Narendra Modi with his trademark half-sleeve kurtas, who comes close to having an ‘iconic’ image. And thereby hangs a tale…

Married to the job

America may obsess about its First Lady but in India, we simply don’t care about political spouses

Last week I devoured the controversial new book, The Obamas, by New York Times correspondent Jodi Kantor, in one greedy gulp. But even at the half-way mark I could understand why the book had so upset the White House. The story may ostensibly be about the Obamas as a couple and the dynamics of their relationship but its focus is undoubtedly the First Lady – her resistance to her husband’s joining politics; her difficulties in adjusting to life in the White House; her extravagance; her stormy relationship with her husband’s staffers; her struggle to find a meaningful role for herself other than that of First Mum; and so on.

But what intrigued me was not so much that Kantor had spun a book – and a very readable one at that – out of meeting the Obamas for about half an hour several years ago (as the White House bitterly pointed out). What really leapt out at me as I raced through the chapters is how important spouses are in American politics.

They may not be running for office themselves but political wives are subjected to much the same media scrutiny as their husbands. Their every move is analysed, every statement mined for sub-text, and every wardrobe choice picked over. Whatever the merits of the men, they inevitably end up being judged by the women they married – and if they managed to stay married to them. And wives can often make or break a political career.

Remember how Hillary Clinton was pilloried for making dismissive remarks about stay-at-home moms who baked cookies when her husband was running for President? Such was the backlash that she had to turn up on a television show with some home-baked cookies she had rustled up herself to prove that she – a high-flying lawyer – was a regular mom like any other. When the ‘bimbo eruptions’ hit Bill Clinton’s first presidential campaign, it was Hillary who gave a joint interview with her husband to shore up his image. And again, when the Monica Lewinsky story hit the headlines, it was Hillary who came up with the infamous phrase, ‘a giant right-wing conspiracy’ to defend her beleaguered husband.

Yes, wives have the power to shore up their husbands’ political careers if they so choose. President George W. Bush’s image as a warmonger was softened by the gentle presence of his wife, Laura, the school-teacher turned librarian, who spent all her time doing good works and reading to children. And more recently, when Barack Obama’s ratings plummeted to abysmal levels, his wife’s soaring popularity helped to even the score a bit.

Now, as the scrimmage over the Republican nomination for the next US Presidential election continues, political wives merit more coverage than ever. Mitt Romney scores by the simple expedient of staying married to his high-school sweetheart, Ann, with whom he has five strapping sons. Newt Gingrich hasn’t been so lucky. Last week, Maureen Dowd devoted her entire New York Times column to eviscerating Gingrich’s current wife, Callista. Describing the third Mrs Gingrich as a ‘tranformational wife’ who wants her husband to go out there and conquer the world, Dowd wrote, “Draped in Tiffany diamonds, Callista is the embodiment of the divide between Gingrich’s public piety and private immorality.” Ouch!

This American-style spotlight on political wives has now even spread across the Atlantic, with the wives of British Prime Ministers playing a more visible public role. Nobody either heard or saw Norma Major when her husband was Prime Minister. But you couldn’t possibly say that about Cherie Blair now, could you? Even the more low-profile Sarah Brown was pulled out at the Labour Party conference to introduce her husband Gordon to the delegates in a speech aimed at ‘humanising’ him.

Now Samantha Cameron is a visible presence on the British political scene, supporting her husband at political events, flying the flag for British fashion, or hosting a gaggle of political spouses on the sidelines of major conferences. On the Continent, it is Carla Bruni who is flying the flag for the political wife, making joint appearances with her husband, Nicolas Sarkozy, to give his image a much-needed dose of glamour.

Thankfully, we in India are still holding out against this trend of making political spouses part of the political narrative. The only time we see Gursharan Kaur, wife of Prime Minister Manmohan Singh, in the papers is when she accompanies her husband on some foreign trip. Otherwise, she stays very much in the shadows, preserving her privacy behind the ramparts of Race Course Road.

Of the putative Prime Ministerial candidates on offer, Rahul Gandhi does not have a spouse (though it’s probably fair to say that she would get a fair amount of media attention if she did, in fact, exist). But even among the BJP’s Prime Ministerial candidates, it is hard to put a face on the spouses of any of them. It has been rumoured that Narendra Modi has a wife, but I can’t seem to recall a single picture of her being published in the media. And I doubt that most people could identify Arun Jaitley’s wife or Sushma Swaraj’s husband if their lives depended on it.

No, in India, political spouses are just not part of the political discourse. We don’t care what they think about the political issues of the day; what they do to earn a living; or even, what they wear. And long may it stay that way.

Double trouble

In a world that swears by political correctness, double standards are all the rage

So Posh Spice finally has what she ‘really really wanted’ for a long time: a baby girl, a much-awaited and longed-for daughter after three strapping boys. With each pregnancy, or so the gossip rags maintain, Victoria hoped for a daughter, a teeny-tiny Baby Spice to dress up in pink and to whom she could pass on her wisdom about Girl Power. But it wasn’t to be. The Beckhams instead became parents to three beautiful boys – Brooklyn, Cruz and Romeo – but they never gave up on their dream of a daughter.

So even at considerable risk to herself – all her children were born by C-section (cue the usual jokes about being too Posh to push) and three is generally considered to be the safe limit for this procedure – Victoria became pregnant again in the hope of bringing forth a baby girl this time. And this once, the Gods smiled upon the Beckhams, who welcomed their first daughter, Harper Seven (really, what is it with celebrities and outlandish names for their offspring?) into the world last month.

But even as the media gushed about the fact that Victoria and David’s family was now complete and how absolutely fabulous it was that they had finally got the daughter of their dreams, even if it had taken them four tries to get there, an uneasy thought popped up in my mind.

Would we have reacted in the same way if the Beckhams had been trying for a son rather than a daughter? Would we have been quite so indulgent about their desire for a child of a particular gender if the genders had been reversed?

Somehow, I think not. There seems to be some sort of peculiar double standard at work in the world today when it is perfectly okay to express your desire to have a daughter. But if a woman ever dares mention that she is hoping for a son, or would even like to have one, well then, she is no better than a traitor to her own gender.

So while it is fine to keep ‘trying’ in the hope of producing a baby girl, doing so in the hope of getting a baby boy marks you down as being obscurantist, old-fashioned, gender-insensitive and, of course, politically incorrect.

Strange, isn’t it?

Of course boys have been universally preferred down the ages, being seen as the heirs to the family fortune, who will carry their proud name forward, while girls marry and leave for their own homes. And in a country like India where female foeticide is endemic, it is always a refreshing change to have someone say that they would prefer a girl over a boy.

Surely, however, it is human nature to want one of each kind, to want to experience the joy of having a son as well as a daughter. But such is the strength of the double standard – and so despicable are some of the means we employ to have boys rather than girls – that it takes a brave woman to say that, yes, she does hope to have a son this time round.

But in a world where political correctness has run wild, such double standards are well-established now.

Let’s take a look at how we refer to foreign visitors to our shores. Anybody who is White is unthinkingly referred to as a ‘Firangi’ or ‘Gora’, without the slightest fear that this may give offence or be perceived as racist. But nobody with the slightest sensitivity would ever refer to a Chinese person as ‘Chinki’ or call a Japanese a ‘Nip’. And anybody who did would be promptly accused of being vilely racist – as indeed they should.

And yet, when you think about it, what’s the difference? Why do we get to use ‘Gora’ in polite conversation when we wouldn’t dream of saying ‘Chinki’? Surely, the offence is much the same?

Similarly, nobody bats an eyelid when you imitate English and American accents to send people up. But God forbid that you should ever do the same with a German, French or Italian accent. For some reason that is seen as racist while the first two are just dismissed as so much good fun. And imitating Japanese, Thai or even Chinese accents is simply beyond the pale.

Then, there’s the politically correct take on fairness creams. Surely by now all of you must know that they are A Very Bad Thing. The manufacturers prey on the insecurities of dark-skinned people and make them pay obscene sums of money to lighten their complexions with creams that are no more effective than a good sunblock. Shame on them! Don’t they know any better?

That said, nobody objects to the booming fake tan business, in which people try and to darken their light complexions to prove that they are rich enough to holiday in spots where they can get a nice sun-tan. And yet, you can’t deny that both are two sides of the same coin; a manifestation of the desire of people to improve their appearance in a manner that pleases them. So why be judgemental about one and not the other?

And then, there’s the usual gender-bender stuff that comes with political correctness. There is no harm is sending up your husband by complaining how he does no housework, doesn’t help with the children, is too messy (remember Michelle Obama’s famous reference to her husband’s ‘smelly socks’?) and just so useless all around. But what if the same put-upon husband were to retaliate by pointing out how rubbish his wife is at driving and how she still can’t parallel park? Well, I’ll just leave it to you to guess how that story would unfold.

That sinking feeling

To be human is to be disappointed – and vice versa

So, it is official. President Barack Obama is a disappointment. He is a disappointment to those who believed in his message of change and turned out in droves to vote him into the White House. He is a disappointment to the Democratic Party which has lost its dominance of the US House of Representatives under his watch. He is a disappointment to Rajiv Pratap Rudy who wanted him to denounce Pakistan as a terrorist state from the terrace of the Taj Mahal Hotel. He is a disappointment to those Indian media commentators who would have liked him to order a nuclear strike against Waziristan during his Indian visit. And he is certainly a disappointment to all those school kids who now know that Obama can’t dance, sala (unlike his wife Michelle – Oh Yes, She Can!).

I guess, that’s the thing about being built up into some kind of demi-God. No matter what you do afterwards, no matter how you behave, no matter what you say, you will always be a bit of a disappointment. Try as hard as you like. But you will never be able to measure up to the picture that people have built up of you in their heads.

That said, I have to admit that I was distinctly underwhelmed by the Barack Obama we saw in India. Maybe it was the drubbing he received in the recent US by-elections, maybe it was jet lag after a long trans-Atlantic flight, but the American President seemed curiously unengaged, even distracted, during his sojourn in India. There wasn’t any of the eloquence that we have come to expect from him; his address at the memorial to the 26/11 victims was rather pedestrian by his standards. There was none of that razor-sharp wit and blazing intelligence in evidence; in fact, he waffled quite embarrassingly when asked the P (yes, that would be Pakistan) question by a Mumbai student.

But why blame poor Obama alone when disappointment is really endemic to life; a part, if you will, of the human condition. From the time you are old enough to identify an emotion for what it is, to the time you die, disappointment is destined to be a regular feature of your life. In fact, if you ask me, to be human is to be disappointed – and vice versa.

It all begins in early childhood, when you start to realise with dawning horror that the entire world does not revolve around you. The epiphany could strike when a cousin comes visiting and gets far more attention from your grandmother than you. Or when the arrival of a younger sibling means that you are no longer the centre of your parents’ universe. Or even at your first day at school, when the teacher praises the girl sitting next to you, while ignoring you entirely.

As a child, you look on the world with a certain innocence, even insouciance. Everything seems possible; all things appear well within your grasp if you would only reach out for them. But as you grow up and the realities of the world intrude, the realm of the impossible grows bigger and bigger. And from then on, you seem to be whizzing downhill at an ever-increasing speed as the disappointments pile up hard and fast.

There’s the moment when you finally come to terms with the fact that you are not going to grow up into a bona fide beauty like your mom. When you realise that with the best will in the world – and many, many hours of back-breaking practise – you will never become another Sachin Tendulkar on the cricket field. And that no matter how much you wish for it, however hard you pray, that boy/girl down the street is never going to take much notice of you.

Once you have got over the disappointment of realising that you really are not as special as you were led to believe by your parents, life kicks in with its own set of special let-downs. You can’t get into the college of your choice though you topped your school in the board exams. You will never be able to fulfil your dream of being a neurosurgeon or nuclear physicist. You can’t even get an interview – let alone a job – at the company you always wanted to work for. Your boss doesn’t appreciate you; that raise is simply not good enough; and no, you’re not going to make it to the board after all.

It doesn’t get much better in your personal life either. Your girlfriend isn’t the supermodel you dreamt of when you were an adolescent boy (and the boyfriend isn’t quite the Greek God, for that matter). Your spouse simply doesn’t understand you as well as that charming co-worker in the next office. Your kids aren’t budding geniuses who will fulfil all the dreams that died young in your case.

But worst of all, is the sense of being disappointed with your own self, the feeling that you have failed to achieve your full potential. There’s nothing worse than the disappointment that ensues from knowing that you have made mistakes along the way. And that there is no one to blame but yourself for the way your life has turned out.

Well at least, that’s how ordinary folk like you and me feel about themselves. But I can’t help but wonder if the rich, the famous, the powerful, also feel the same way.

What do you think? Is Obama as disappointed in himself as the rest of the world seems to be?

What’s not to hate?

There really can be no other honest reaction to smugness

When it comes to human vices, I have no problem getting on board with greed. After all, I can never say no to a second helping of chocolate cake, so who am I to judge? I can sympathise with the instinct to lie, because to tell you the truth, you need a bit of dishonesty to smoothen the wheels of social discourse. I have no quarrel with avarice because if we didn’t want more than we have, then we’d probably still be stuck in the Dark Ages. Bad temper I can cope with, because God knows I am no saint in that department. And I can make my peace with lust because without that the human race would have died out long ago.

There’s just one thing that I simply cannot stand: smugness.

There is something so smarmy and nasty about it that it gets my hackles up the moment it hoves into view. No sooner does it rear its ugly head in my vicinity than I want to tear it right off and shove it someplace where the sun never shines. Okay, so patience is not my strong suit, but seriously, what other honest reaction can you have to smugness?

I was reminded of this when I saw the holiday snaps of American President Obama and his lovely family on vacation in a natural park in Maine. There they were, the tall and handsome Barack, his slim and beautiful wife Michelle, and their two beautiful daughters, riding bikes, trekking up mountains, going for long walks, playing one sport or another. Frankly, it made me wonder when they found the time to catch their breath, let alone have an entire meal.

But the message behind all these photo-opportunities was clear. See, the Obamas seemed to be saying to all their fellow (obese) Americans, this is how a healthy family goes on holiday. And if you want to be as thin and beautiful as us, steer clear of those Happy Meals at McDonalds, stay away from those slot machines at Vegas, and for God’s sake, get off your fat backsides and do some exercise. You can skip like the First Lady, play basketball like the President or hula-hoop your way to fitness like Sasha and Malia. This is what you should be doing on holiday, not kicking back with a six-pack of beer and an oversized packet of crisps.

Now, tell me, how irritating is that? Isn’t it enough that we have to deal with picture-perfect photographs of celebrities and their fabulous lives? Do they have to shame us with images of their aerobicized annual vacations as well?

But while the smugness might begin with celebrities, it certainly doesn’t stop with them. It is alive and well and flourishing in your vicinity, thanks to your many friends, family members, casual acquaintances, neighbours and passing strangers.

It rears its ugly head with your sibling who can’t stop showing off about the fact that he is making double the money that you are; his kids are doing much better in school; his car is twice the size of yours; his house was recently re-modelled; and his wife is still hot enough to elicit admiring glances from the neighbourhood boys.

In the office, this smugness manifests itself in that co-worker who always manages to have his work ready ahead of time, drawing unnecessary attention to the fact that you have missed your deadline yet again. Or it could show up in the boss who is convinced that he is right about everything – and maddeningly enough, always is.

The sad truth is that there is simply no escaping smugness in our everyday lives. You will encounter it in the gym in the person of that hyper-fit young woman who insists on doing her stretches right in the middle of the room so that everyone can marvel at her contortionist ways. Or in that over-muscled man who grunts and groans away in the weights section so that no one can remain oblivious of the fact that he is bench-pressing double his body weight.

In the swimming pool, you will encounter the mandatory bikini babe who is there not to swim but to show off her perfectly-buffed frame. So, she spends all her time on the lounger, rubbing suntan lotion into her exfoliated, cellulite-free body, and adjusting her straps so that she tans evenly – while all the other women lunge for their bathrobes the moment they are out of the water.

Go shopping for groceries or vegetables and you will invariably be stuck behind someone who wants to know where the cherries or pears are from, whether they have any organic basmasti rice, and could they possibly rustle up some roasted snacks rather than all this deep-fried rubbish.

And I’m pretty sure that we all have the neighbour from hell, whose garden looks pristine no matter what the season, whose ficus is always doing better than ours, whose children never seem to break anyone’s windows when they play cricket, and whose wife manages to cook a hot dinner every night despite holding down a demanding job (and who can’t understand why you order in from Dominos quite so often).

The underlying message behind all this smugness – no matter how or where it manifests itself – is the same: “Hey, look, I am much better than you. And you couldn’t possibly be as healthy, slim, hard-working, successful, talented, rich or happy as I am, no matter how hard you tried.”

You tell me. What’s not to hate?