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’. 

Shooting star

The story of Rekha continues to fascinate us; but the woman herself remains a mystery

I first encountered the glamorous world of Hindi cinema when I was around eight years old. It happened thus. We had set off on a picnic with family and friends to the Botanical Gardens in Howrah. As we headed for our usual spot under the overarching banyan tree, we saw a flurry of excitement just off to the right. There was a small crowd gathered, held behind a roped-off area by a posse of policemen.

How could we possibly resist? We veered off from our normal route to check out what was happening. "Shooting cholche," explained one excited man, while everybody around shouted "Omeet da, Omeet da!"

The 'Omeet da' in question was none other than Amitabh Bachchan. There he sat on the top of a tiny hillock, a white towel arranged around his neck, checking out his reflection in the mirror held up by one of his assistants.

But my eyes swept past him to zero in on another figure: a statuesque sari-clad lady standing in the shade of a tree, her eyes fixed -- like the rest of us -- on Amitabh Bachchan. Even as a child, I could sense the intensity of that gaze, even though I couldn't really make sense of it. Who was that woman, I asked my sister. That was the heroine of the movie. Her name was Rekha.

I hadn't yet been exposed to the pleasures of Stardust or Cine Blitz, so I had no idea about the rumors swirling around the lead actors of Do Anjaane (the shooting of this movie was apparently when their affair started). But as we persuaded them to pose for a picture with us, and the two of them stood together in the middle of our little huddle, it was Rekha I couldn't take my eyes off.

She was simply the most beautiful woman I had ever laid eyes on in my short, uneventful life. Her hair pulled tightly back from her face, her heavily-kohled eyes sparkling like two jewels, her bow-shaped lips a perfect study in red, she was a vision for the ages. But why, I wondered from my vantage point of somewhere around her knees, were her hands five shades darker than her face?

We soon wandered off to have our little picnic, but the image of Rekha stayed with me. The next time I raided my mother's make-up bag, I used her red lipstick to curve a bow-string around my mouth as well. Needless to say, that did not make me look like Rekha.

But our paths were to cross nearly two decades later. By then I was a journalist, working with Sunday magazine, and Rekha was one of the brightest stars of her generation. So, you can imagine the consternation when she married an unknown Delhi businessman called Mukesh Aggarwal, who then committed suicide seven months later, hanging himself from a fan using Rekha's dupatta.

As stories go, this couldn't get any bigger. And I was put on it to provide the Delhi input.

My first interview was with Mukesh's therapist and friend, Akash Bajaj, who lived in a tony colony in Delhi. It took some persuading to get her to talk but she finally relented. As I was ushered into her dimly-lit drawing room and laid eyes on her beautiful but drawn face, grief etched deep into every perfect feature, I realized in a flash that while Rekha may well have been the wife, I was now face-to-face face with the virtual widow.

Bajaj's pain was impossible to fathom; her dignity almost unbearable to watch. And as she spoke, her voice straining under her sorrow and bewilderment ("All I want to ask is why?") the idea of Rekha that I had carried in my head began to take an altogether uglier shape.

Of course, everyone knew even then that Mukesh Aggarwal had been a chronic depressive. And that it was nobody's fault that he had decided to end his life. But in moments of anger and anguish, it is only natural to lash out at somebody. And Mukesh's family and friends lashed out at Rekha, the woman who had 'bewitched' him and then cruelly abandoned him to his fate.

It was after that episode that Rekha turned into the recluse she is today. Walled up behind the gates of her bungalow, her only link to the world appears to be her long-time secretary, Farzana, who, bizarrely, always dresses like Amitabh Bachchan (circa 1980s) whenever she escorts the actress to public events. Even the new biography of Rekha published by Juggernaut is based on interviews with people who know her. Rekha herself remained incommunicado during the entire process.

Speaking for myself, I only saw Rekha in the flesh once after that childhood encounter. We were both leaving an awards function in Mumbai, waiting for our cars to arrive. Not wanting to stare goggle-eyed like everyone else on the porch, I just risked a sidelong glance. Her kohl-rimmed eyes still shone like jewels but her skin was stretched tight as a drum, so much so that those bow-shaped red lips could no longer relax naturally into a smile. Rekha was now the caricature of the woman she had once been, with her rictus grin, her immobile forehead, and paper-thin skin.

Only one thing hadn't changed. Her hands were still five shades darker than her face.

An affair to remember

Why do certain celebrity relationships continue to engage our attention long after they are over?

What is it about some love stories that they simply refuse to fade from public imagination? I asked myself this question yet again last week as Jennifer Aniston began doing the usual round of publicity interviews for her new movie, Cake. Actually, make that ‘poor old Jen’ who lost her husband, the great love of her life, Brad Pitt, to the evil machinations of that sultry siren, Angelina Jolie. Poor thing, she never found love again, moving from relationship after relationship, grasping for the same magic she had with Brad. But no, that wasn’t to be.

Watching Aniston answer the same questions (about Brad, Jolie, their many kids, her striking lack of them), you could be forgiven for thinking that Brad and Jen had split a year ago. Actually, it’s been ten years. And still the same questions keep cropping up in every interview Aniston does.

She and Brad may have moved on, but we are unwilling – or unable – to do so. We seem more committed to the eternal love triangle of Jen-Brad-Jolie than Brad ever was to Jennifer, trying to tease out some meaning from it, puzzling over what went wrong, and sighing about what could have been. So, every couple of months, a fresh crop of stories surfaces in the media. Brad is back in touch with Jen. Jolie is livid because she doesn’t trust Jen. Brad is so unhappy with Jolie. Jen is going to break up with her fiancé Justin Theroux (because she never ever got over Brad, you see). And so on…

Why should this be so? I must confess that I am stumped. Yes, all three protagonists are A-list celebrities so some amount of media attention on their relationship (and lack thereof) is inevitable. But this sort of obsession about something that happened a decade ago? Does it make any sense? Of course not. Nonetheless, the breathless media coverage goes on.

But even if we can’t really work out why this should be so, there is no denying that there are some star pairings that live on in our imaginations, more vividly than ever, even though the couple in question has long since ceased to exist. And we continue to obsess over their relationship – why did it end; who was to blame; whose side are you on? – decades after it has been dead and buried.

If our generation had Brad and Jen (and Jolie), then the one before had those eternal star-crossed lovers, Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. Their coming together on the sets of Cleopatra was a bit like an irresistible force meeting an immovable object. Sparks flew, passions were ignited, and a very public affair began despite the fact that both were still married to other people. They divorced their then-spouses in a spectacular blaze of publicity, and generated even more headlines when they got married to one another. The fiery relationship saw them get divorced, get off with other people, and then with a certain inevitability, gravitate back towards one another. Another wedding followed, and then, another divorce.

After the final split, Taylor went on to re-marry twice even as Burton notched up two marriages of his own. He was married to Sally Hay when he died in 1984. But as far as the media were concerned, it was Liz, not Sally, who was the rightful Burton widow. All the coverage was about Burton and Taylor: the passionate letters he had written to her through their long and complicated relationship; glamorous pictures of them on set or dancing the night away at some club. And much the same thing happened when Taylor passed away in 2011. It was the tragic, tumultuous love story of Burton and Taylor that dominated the obituaries, with her six other husbands meriting merely a passing mention.

In India, there is really only one celebrity couple that I can think of who has attracted this sort of obsessive coverage: Amitabh Bachchan and Rekha. Even though their ‘relationship’ (always rumoured; never confirmed, despite the many coy hints Rekha threw around about ‘Him’ in her many interviews) allegedly ended in the 80s, the myths around it continue to circulate.

The two have never worked together in a movie after Silsila, which was released in 1981, but even more than 30 years later, the presence of them both at any film function is bound to create a frisson. If Rekha is giving away an award, the cameras will focus closely on Amitabh’s face to see how he reacts (with a poker face, if you must know). If Amitabh is on stage and Rekha in the audience, then it is her reaction that the camera will look for (adoring look, paired with mysterious smile). And so, the dance continues even though both are getting a bit long in the tooth now.

Now, of course, there is a new angle to explore in this ‘triangle’ for the ages: Rekha and Jaya in the Rajya Sabha. Both women are members of the same House of Parliament, so their paths are bound to cross at one time or another. And the media are lying in wait for just such a moment. When Rekha takes her oath, the camera pans to Jaya; when Jaya makes an intervention in a debate, the camera closes up on Rekha. And thus, it goes.

Why do these love stories that ended decades ago continue to engage our interest? What is it about these people that makes their ‘relationships’ the fodder of gossip columns, years after the event? Why are we so obsessed with these triangles for the ages? If you can work it out, do let me know.

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.

Goodbye seems to be the hardest word

Nobody in this country ever seems to retire with good grace – or in good time

Consider the curious case of Sourav Ganguly. Once one of the most successful captains of the Indian cricket team, these days he is reduced to warming the bench at IPL games featuring the Pune Warriors while newspapers report snidely about how he scored 27 runs off 24 balls at the nets, but managed to get caught twice and bowled out once in the process.

How did it come to this? I know this won’t make me very popular in the bylanes of Kolkata, but I blame Sourav himself. He was a great cricketer, a wonderful captain, and a fierce competitor. But despite being a great strategic thinker when it came to the game, he failed to gauge when he should declare his innings in real life.

Surely Sourav should have seen the writing on the wall in the last season of the IPL when he didn’t contribute a great deal to his team, the Kolkata Knight Riders. But despite every indication that the franchise had lost interest in him, Sourav still put himself up for auction – only to be humiliated when no one bothered to bid for him.

Even then it was not too late. Sourav could have made a gracious statement about how he had decided to quit the game forever (even though, technically, it was the game that had quit on him). And indeed, for a time it looked as if he had made his peace with reality, finding solace in the commentary box instead.

But just when you thought that he was out, Sourav – much like that monster in horror movies who refuses to stay down for the count – was back again. This time, as a replacement player for Ashish Nehra (oh, how the mighty have fallen!) in the Pune Warriors team. No, not as their secret weapon who would be fielded to slay the opposition, but as a bench-warmer who watched his first games from the safety of the team dug-out.

I don’t know about you, but all of this just makes me sad. Why subject yourself to this needless humiliation when you can go out with grace and dignity? I mean, look at Shane Warne. The man retired from Test and one-day cricket when he was at his peak. And now, even though he is the lynchpin of his team, the Rajasthan Royals, Warnie has announced that this will be his last season as a player in the IPL.

Warne has understood something that Sourav plainly hasn’t. Leave the stage while they are still asking, “Why?” Don’t leave it until they are demanding, “Why not?”

But then, why blame Sourav alone? This is a disease that seems to be endemic in India. Nobody in this country ever seems inclined to call it a day, clinging on with their fingernails for dear life. And even when they are forcibly ejected, they tend to go out kicking and screaming.

By any reckoning, both Manmohan Singh and L.K. Advani should have retired years ago, leaving the field clear for a younger lot of leaders to take over. But despite having heart surgery in his first term, Singh still put himself forward as a candidate for the Prime Minister’s job in UPA’s second term in office. And L.K. Advani, who failed in his bid to become Prime Minister, continues to play a pivotal role in BJP politics instead of taking a backseat.

Manmohan Singh is now 78 years old. L.K. Advani is 83. And yet, neither of them seems to think it all politic to contemplate retirement from public life. Contrast this with such Western democracies as Britain and the USA. The American President, Barack Obama, is still a few months short of 50 while the British Prime Minister David Cameron is a sprightly 44. And their predecessors, George W Bush and Tony Blair retired at the ages of 61 and 54 respectively, making a clean break from domestic politics.

Our bureaucrats are no better. Rare is the secretary of the Indian government who hangs up his red tape once he has reached retirement age. Instead, our babus vie with one another to find plum post-retirement government sinecures so that they can stay on in their plush bungalows (and drive around in their white Ambassadors) for just a little while longer. The lucky ones get the Governorships that haven’t been gobbled up by ageing politicians; the rest make do chairmanships of state corporations and the like. Retirement at 60 is strictly for losers.

Not that other professions are any different. The movie world is littered with examples of people who defy the laws of logic to still remain in the business. Govinda continues to make execrable comedies that plump the depths of bad taste. Rekha continues to be pulled out of the moth-balls (or should that be aspic?) for a cameo turn every now and then. And Dev Anand – God bless his evergreen heart – continues to churn out movies that nobody ever watches.

I guess the soul is not the only thing that is eternal in these parts.

But, of course, it could be a lot worse. Take a quick look across the border at Pakistan and count your blessings. While their politicians may have a rather short shelf life unlike ours, their Generals never seem to retire – they just become terror masterminds instead.