Picture perfect

Could there be anything more annoying in the world than full-on perfection?

Go on, admit it. Isn’t there something just a tad annoying about perfection? Okay, make that very annoying indeed. You know what I mean, don’t you? All those picture-perfect images of celebrities in the media, without a hair out of place. The slickly-designed homes that feature in style magazines, colour-coordinated till the sofa springs squeak. Those food shows that serve up glossy, glammed-up food, on gleaming crockery, to equally gleaming people.

Well, whatever you may think about it, I have to confess that I am fed up with being fed these images of perfection day in and day out. If anything, these tableaux of perfection make me long for a world which is a bit messed up, a tiny bit ragged around the edges, or even just plain old ugly. 

It’s not just the media, of course. It’s also real life. And of course, some people, who are so darned perfect that the only response to their po-faced perfection is to punch them in the face (not that I actually do that; but consider yourselves warned). 

I have a sneaking suspicion that some of them are just playing the part and are secretly as flawed and imperfect as the rest of us. But true to form, they play the part so perfectly that they have the rest of us convinced – and bloody annoyed. Or is that just me?

Well, for what it is worth, here is a ready reckoner of all the things that I, in all my glorious imperfections, find very, very annoying indeed.

• Those people who decorate their houses in shades of beige, taupe, ivory, cream, or even stark white, and then manage to keep them looking pristine for years. Don’t these people have kids? Or even guests? Don’t they themselves eat dinner, drink red wine, or sneak in a quick ice-cream late at night? And if they do, how come their décor remains spill-free and immaculate? Do they secretly execute renovations in the dead of night so that the rest of us don’t know what they are up to? I think the world deserves to know the truth about this Beige Brigade.
• Perfect moms who send their kids to school with perfectly-ironed uniforms, perfectly-brushed hair, and with tiffins that contain only organic, free-range, thingummy jigs, with not a trace of added sugar. You know the ones I mean, don’t you? The kind of mums who treat your kid like a terrorist because he or she is packing a cupcake in his/her goody bag. And who send a long list of instructions of what their child can or cannot eat if you ever invite him or her over for a play date (even as you mutter “never again” to yourself under your breath).
• Talking of kids, don’t you hate those smug parents whose kids never put a foot wrong? These perfectly-reared monsters never have a meltdown in a supermarket aisle, never smear chocolate on other people’s furniture/clothes, and never ever run around terrorizing hapless diners in fancy restaurants. Oh no, they listen to Mummy and Daddy all the time, obey all instructions, say ‘thank you’ and ‘please’ without being prompted, and generally do all they can to make other children (and their parents) feel totally and utterly inadequate.
• The folks who can wear linen or starched cotton the whole day long without every throwing up a single crease (if you don’t count the ones they had achieved by the efficient press of an iron). How do they do it? Do they never sit down all day long? Or do they carry discreet little travel irons around in their handbags to affect repairs as and when needed? The mind truly boggles!
• Those people with iron self-control who never cheat on their diets, not even if a three-star Michelin chef is in the kitchen. They stick with cheerless severity to their lettuce salad (hold the dressing), poached fish with steamed vegetables on the side, and a fruit platter for dessert. These are those ‘virtuous’ creatures who are never tempted by a plate of French fries, a gooey chocolate desert, or a juicy hamburger with cheese and bacon, and then look down from the moral high ground of their dietary superiority on the rest of us mere mortals. What’s not to loath? 
• And last of all, there is a special place in hell reserved for people who manage to get off long-haul flights looking as good (if not better) as when they got on. I can just about forgive the Duchess of Cambridge, aka Kate Middleton, who has a hairdresser, lady-in-waiting and God alone knows who else, travelling with her to ensure that the future Queen of England never steps off a plane looking less than immaculate. But what do you make of the likes of Victoria Beckam and Jemima Khan, who stroll through airports with bouncy hair and immaculate make-up even after a 12-hour flight. Or, for that matter, Angelina Jolie, who in addition to looking as glamorous as ever, manages to pull off the Earth Mother routine as well, dragging along all six of her children for the perfect photo-opportunity. What is wrong with these women? And why doesn’t static strike them like it does the rest of us?
Honestly, there really is no justice in this world!

The Baby Belly

Why is it even considered worthy of comment?

Like much of the world, I allowed myself to get caught up in all that Royal Baby madness. So, along with millions of others, I was watching television to see Prince William and Catherine (no, she does not want to be called Kate), Duchess of Cambridge, emerge from the hospital, cradling their new-born son in their arms. The freshly-minted parents were beaming with pride and joy – as you do when you have just met your first born – and the mother looked absolutely radiant, glowing with good health and happiness, her hair professionally styled to its usual Middleton-swishiness.

Imagine my surprise then when the media decided to ignore her ear-to-ear smile, her sparkling eyes, and yes, that amazing blow-dry, to focus attention on what they called her ‘baby belly’, that discreet little bump around her waist where she had carried the Prince of Cambridge to term. Social forums like Netmums were delirious with delight that Catherine had chosen this moment to make a point for new mums everywhere: that this was what a post-birth body looked like, and there was no shame or embarrassment in showing it off. In those minutes, as she stood before the gates of Lindo Wing and showed off her baby son as well as her baby belly, she had made millions of women feel better about their own mummy tummys.

Well, if that’s what the Duchess intended to do, full marks to her. But frankly, what amazes – even angers – me is that this is a story at all. Why do we allow society to hardwire these unrealistic images of how a woman’s body should look into our brains, so much so that we are astonished and astounded when we see a new mother put her ‘real’ figure on display?

Here’s a news flash for all you body fascists out there. A woman’s body is not a rubber band (yes, really!). It doesn’t snap back into shape like elastic the moment she has pushed out an 8-pound person out of herself. The uterus take a couple of weeks to subside to its normal size, and the abdominal muscles that have been stretched over nine months, take time to settle down as well. So, it is completely natural for a woman who has given birth to still look, well, pregnant. Call it a baby belly or whatever the heck you want, but that is what every woman’s body looks like after she has squeezed out a brand-new human being out of her.

And yet, we never see these images of post-partum mums in the media, which would give women a realistic idea of what to expect when they are expecting (and after). Instead, we are inundated with pictures of celebrities like Victoria Beckam, who seems to emerge from the birthing suite wearing skinny jeans that show off her impossibly-tiny waist. Or even supermodels like Gisele Bundchen, who showed off her washboard abs in a bikini for a Vogue cover, a mere two months after giving birth. There’s nothing quite like seeing these amazing post-baby figures to make ‘normal’ new mothers feel awful about their bodies and themselves.

Small wonder then, that these days most famous women appear leery of exposing their real selves to the camera soon after giving birth, waiting a couple of months for the baby belly to disappear. And if they do have to make public appearances, they wear loose, flowing dresses so that nobody notices the mummy tummy below.

Even Catherine’s mother-in-law, Princess Diana, emerged from the hospital carrying William, while wearing a tent-like smock, beneath which it was impossible to ascertain her exact shape. So, I guess it was a brave choice for the Duchess to wear a custom-made Jenny Packham dress which was belted just below her bust, drawing attention to the post-baby bump below. And given how intensely she controls her own image, it wasn’t just a happy accident that the dress was designed to draw attention to her gently-swelling stomach.

But however comfortable Catherine may be about her baby belly, not everyone was willing to let the matter rest. The day after Catherine gave birth, the ever-enterprising folk at OK magazine put out a new Royal baby issue with the Duchess on the cover. The headline read “Kate’s post-baby weight loss regime” and went on to add, reassuringly, “She’s super-fit; her stomach will shrink right back”.

The sub-text was all too clear. Now that the sprog’s out, it’s time to hit the gym and regain that waist, Kate. There’s no excuse for looking pregnant even after you’ve given birth. So, get on the treadmill, woman, and don’t spare the crunches.

But, hearteningly, what was even clearer, was the backlash. Social media was abuzz with women (and some men, for good measure) pillorying OK for its cover. British television presenter, Katy Hill, spearheaded a Twitter campaign with the hashtag #dontbuyok, and even tweeted a picture of her own ‘baby belly’ for good measure. OK hastily backtracked and apologized profusely for its so-not-OK coverage.

For me, it brought back memories of all the flak Aishwarya Rai had to endure for her post-baby weight. And how different things could have been if we, in the Indian media, had also launched a campaign to force the bullies off her back. It would have been a lesson for new moms everywhere that it was more important to lose yourself in your new baby than lose that old baby weight.

Not without my kids

Have you ever forgotten about one of your children and left them behind? Well, the British Prime Minister did...

In one of my favourite episodes from the sitcom Modern Family (which is slowly taking the place of Friends in my life), Claire and Phil Dunphy are at a child psychologist’s clinic with their son Luke. Claire thinks he may have learning disabilities; Phil disagrees. The couple continue to argue as they head out, Luke trailing behind. And then, they get into their respective cars and drive off – leaving their son standing alone in the car park.

Worse is to follow. Each parent thinks Luke is with the other, so they go through the routine of their day not sparing as much as a thought for the abandoned boy. It’s only in the evening when they meet up at a family dinner that they realise that he is with neither of them. Just as they are berating themselves (and each other) a huge stretch limousine drives up and disgorges Luke. The enterprising youngster has managed to hitch a ride home.

Yes, I know, hilarious stuff, right? Well, so long as it is a sitcom, and no child is actually being endangered by being left all alone in the big, bad world, we all laugh (and shake our heads over the folly of the Dunphy clan). But when something like this happens in real life, it can get a bit hairy. Then, it’s all wildly beating hearts, sweaty palms and an imagination that runs away with you, as you think of the worst things that could happen to your child because of a momentary lapse on your part.

That’s probably how David and Samantha Cameron felt when they drove up to Chequers (the country house of the British Prime Minister) and discovered that they had left their eight-year-old daughter, Nancy, behind at the local pub, where they’d gone to have lunch with some friends.

Samantha had thought that Nancy had climbed into her father’s car, as he drove off accompanied by bodyguards. And David believed that she was in the second car, with her mother and her siblings. It was only when the two cars disgorged their cargo that the Camerons realised they were missing their eldest child.

Nancy had apparently wandered off to the loo while the party was leaving and that’s where she was discovered by the pub staff, who kept her entertained while David did a quick U-turn to pick her up.

No harm done. All’s well that ends well. Or any other cliché that you’d like to pull out and employ to describe the situation.

Of course, this being the Camerons and the British press being what it is, the parents were rapidly hauled over the coals for being so irresponsible as to ‘forget’ their daughter at the pub (though, in all fairness, they didn’t forget about her; they just thought she was with the other parent). David was advised to attend one of the parenting courses he is so keen on; Samantha was berated for not keeping all her children well within sight at all times; and there were those mandatory musings about how the social services would have been called in double quick if the parents had been working class ‘chavs’ rather than posh folk like the Camerons. And yes, the term Nancygate cropped up in news reports soon enough.

But while this was, no doubt, an honest mistake that the Camerons won’t be repeating any time soon, it does make one think about the British Prime Minister’s security detail. It’s one thing for harried parents to miss one child out of three. But quite another for a Scotland Yard close protection team to miss the fact that a child of the PM was unaccounted for as long as 15 minutes. Thankfully, Nancy remained safe – but the alternative really doesn’t bear thinking about. (And I do hope that some heads have rolled as a consequence.)

Though the rules must be different for David Cameron and his family – who are high value targets for any terrorist group – this is a situation that any overworked, harried parent can identify with. Victoria Beckham, for instance, famously confessed to a similar lapse soon after the birth of her daughter, Harper. All set for the school run, Victoria buckled Harper into her car seat, got behind the wheel and drove off to drop son Brooklyn to his school. It was only when she was half-way there that she realised that Brooklyn was not, in fact, in the car.

And for all those hemming and hawing about the Camerons and their irresponsible parenting, here’s an interesting statistic. According to an online poll conducted by The Daily Telegraph, a little over 33.8 per cent of parents have forgotten and left a child behind on one occasion or the other. And while some put it down to momentary forgetfulness there are many who – like the Dunphys and Camerons – did so in the belief that the child was safe with the other parent. This kind of stuff is really more common than you think.

So, if anything, this incident just shores up David Cameron’s credentials as a regular bloke. Now, his security detail – they’re a bit of a disgrace to their service, aren’t they?

Do I look fat in this baby?

It’s time we laid off Aishwarya Rai for not losing those post-pregnancy pounds – it’s her body; and it’s her business

Unless you have been living on another planet you will probably know that Aishwarya Rai and Abhishek Bachchan became proud parents to a baby girl about six months ago. And many congratulations to them.

This is a deliriously happy time in any couple’s life, and why should the Rai-Bachchans be any different? This was their time to bond with their first-born, memorize her every expression as she fell asleep, light up at her first smile, snuggle deep into her neck to get their fill of that delicious baby smell, kiss her pudgy little toes and marvel at how fast her nails grew.

Right? Well, I would certainly think so.

But no, there seems to be a section of an increasingly misogynistic media which believes that Aishwarya has it completely wrong. Bonding with her baby? Staying at home to spend time with the little one? Focussing only on her daughter to the exclusion of all else? Enjoying motherhood without even a nod to personal vanity?

What was she thinking? She should be at the gym, working out twice a day to drop all that weight that she had piled on during her pregnancy. She should have consulted with a dietician to starve herself down to supermodel proportions even before she had weaned the wee mite.

After all, that’s what superstars are supposed to do. That’s how celebrities mothers are expected to behave. Because if they don’t collapse back into their pre-pregnancy shape in a matter of weeks, then how can they make the rest of us feel bad about ourselves? If they don’t make it out of the maternity ward in skinny jeans, then who on earth will take on the task of destroying our self-esteem (not to mention our self-image)?

Cue: obligatory mentions of such celebrities as Victoria Beckham and Anjelina Jolie, who miraculously – or rather, mysteriously – seem to snap back into shape an hour or so after popping one (or two, in Jolie’s case) out.

In fact, such is the obsession with Aishwarya’s post-baby weight gain that if you type these magic words into the Google search engine, no less than 377,000 results pop up. The most popular of these links is a video which has been uploaded on Youtube showing before and after pictures of Aishwarya, who, we are told, has ‘shockingly’ put on five to six kilos (oh! The horror; the horror!). And in case you still didn’t get how awful this development this, the ‘fat’ images of Aishwarya are accompanied with the noise of an elephant trumpeting while a female voice-over asks in hectoring tones: “Isn’t it time she hired a trainer to sweat it out in a gym?” She has an obligation to her fans to look good, you know.

What complete and utter tosh!

The only obligation Aishwarya Rai has at the moment is to be a good and attentive mother to her baby girl. The only obligation she has is to remain healthy enough so that she can nurse her new-born. The only obligation she has is to spend time with her daughter to enjoy the joys of new motherhood.

Her body, her weight, her BMI, her diet, her exercise regime – how she deals with it, or even how she feels about it, is no concern of ours. Her body is her own; her shape is her own business; and we need to lay off her and mind our own business (and our own bodies).

And yet, the commentary just goes on and on. Even the British tabloid, The Daily Mail, which generally restricts itself to keeping a strict watch on the cellulite count of international stars, was concerned enough to run a long article on Aishwarya’s weight gain, which it claimed had ‘sparked outrage’ in India. The headline said it all: Aishwarya Rai “accused of betraying her country for failing to lose weight”.

Yeah, right. That’s what millions of Indians were outraged about. That’s why they felt betrayed. Because Aishwarya Rai was still carrying a few post-baby pounds on her frame. Honestly, you couldn’t make this stuff up!

Well, so far, so sexist. But then, nobody expects much better from the Daily Mail, which has made a fetish out of focussing on the wobbly bits of celebrities.

But there is something seriously wrong with the world when even an otherwise ‘worthy’ newspaper like The Guardian jumps into the fray with an article titled “Aishwarya Rai’s post-baby body forces India to confront its attitude to women”, faithfully rehashing all the commentary on Aishwarya’s weight gain, albeit in a suitably po-faced manner. Well played, indeed.

I don’t know about you, but I find it vastly depressing to see how even pregnancy and early motherhood are now discussed and dissected through the prism of weight gain. It’s like we have a new variation on “Does my bum look big in this?” Now it’s all about “Do I look fat in this baby?”

So, full marks to Aishwarya Rai for refusing to give in to this body fascism. She’s a new mother; she’s put on a few pounds; and she refuses to shed them according to some media-mandated timetable. More power to her. May her tribe increase – and not just figuratively.

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.