Crime and punishment

One has to follow the other if our cities are to be made any safer

By now, nobody disputes that Delhi is seriously unsafe for women. But I never quite realised just how dire the situation was until a recent incident that occurred a little too close to home for comfort.

This is how it unfolded. My cousin (lucky thing!) lives in a sprawling bungalow in a rather tony area of Delhi. Once her kids grew up and flew the coop, she rented out the first floor of her house to a few young women. All seemed to be going well for a while. My cousin was secure in the fact that there were no strange (in every sense of the word) men on the premises. The girls were happy about living above a family which had a dog prowling the grounds and a guard stationed outside the gate, which in any case was securely locked at all times.

But a week ago, my cousin woke up to loud screams emanating from the first floor. She roused her husband and the servants – thinking there would be safety in numbers – and they rushed up to the first floor. Utter confusion raged. There were two men who had broken in and had chased the terrified girls out to the terrace. One of them had gotten hold of one of the girls by the arm and was trying to drag her into a room. She was screaming for her life.

The moment they saw more people rushing in the front door, the intruders abandoned their purpose, made for the spiral staircase on the side of the terrace and ran down. By the time their pursuers caught up with them, they were long gone.

The guards on the outside road swore that no one had run past them. That left just one possibility. The intruders had climbed over the boundary wall of one of the adjoining bungalows. By then, my cousin had a pretty good idea who these men were. They worked in the bungalow next door. She asked the girls who had been attacked if they could identify them. Yes, they said, they would be able to pick them out with no difficulty at all.

So, my cousin and her husband set off the next day to file a complaint at the local police station. They were told to go home and wait and the police would come and investigate. One day came and went. Then another day passed. Finally, the cops arrived, and asked to see the girls who had been attacked. They asked them if they could recognise their attackers. Yes, said the girls, in fact they had seen them in the neighbourhood even after the incident.

Okay, said the cops, don’t worry. We will pick up these guys and teach them a lesson. And we can guarantee you that they will not bother you again.

But, they asked the girls in tones of faux concern, did they really want to file a case? Did they even understand what it entailed? They would have to go to jail to identify these men. They would have to attend court hearings to give evidence. And God knows how long the case could drag on. It could be years and years. Did they really want to get involved in all this ‘jhamela’?

What do you think these traumatised, terrified victims did? Yes, you’re right. They listened to the cops sketching out this nightmarish scenario with sinking hearts and decided not to file a case.

So, these miscreants got off scot-free.

Now, what do you suppose will happen next? Will these men be chastened after the beating that will undoubtedly be delivered at the police station? Will they decide to give up on criminality and turn into model citizens? Will they now treat women with respect rather than as potential rape victims?

Somehow, I think not.

Instead, they are going to become even more emboldened, secure in the belief that no matter what the provocation, the consequence will never be more than a thorough beating – and that’s only if they ever caught and identified. The next time they go trawling for victims, they will choose some vulnerable girl who is not so well protected, and inflict much worse damage on her. And the odds are that they will get away with it yet again.

The recent Dhaula Kuan rape of a BPO employee is a case in point. All the men who have been arrested are petty criminals who have been breaking the law for years with impunity. And after starting out with minor offences like stealing cattle they have escalated to the point where they turned rapists.

That is why I think there is a lesson to be learnt from what happened one night in my cousin’s house. Allow these miscreants to get away once and they will offend again and again. And every new crime will be more serious than the one that went before.

Perhaps it is time the Delhi Police paid attention to the `Broken Window’ policy that was adopted by the New York Police many decades ago. According to this theory, you can’t ignore even something as minor as a broken window. You must repair it and crack down on the vandals who break it. You need to make it clear that no matter how petty a crime, it will lead to punishment. That is the only way to deter people from breaking the law.

If only that same lesson was reinforced in our own metros, we would all breathe a little easier.

The claws are out

There’s never been much love lost between Hindi film heroines; but what’s with all the recent public sniping?

Older readers will probably remember a more innocent time when film magazines carried reverential articles about the leading stars of the day, when those who were in a relationship were described as ‘very good friends’, and every heroine felt compelled to express her utmost respect for her female colleagues even though what she really wanted was to claw their eyes out.

Well, guess what? That’s exactly what the ladies are doing these days – albeit metaphorically, for the time being at least. For now, their weapon of choice is their tongue and boy, do they hand out a lashing with a rare relish!

Nor are their frank opinions expressed within the privacy of their own drawing rooms. Au contraire, they are aired on their TV channels of choice as they act all naughty and playful on the talk show of the day. The barbs are dressed up with giggles and chuckles but they are sharp and well-directed for all that. And they are trading them as if there is no tomorrow.

Playing a starring role in these cat fights is Deepika Padukone, ex-girlfriend of Ranbir Kapoor and current squeeze of Siddharth (son of Vijay) Mallya. Asked what product her former boyfriend should endorse, Deepika was quick to respond. “Condoms!” she replied, with perfect aplomb. Questioned about Katrina Kaif – with whom Ranbir is said to be ‘very good friends’ (see above) – she said she would like to see her passport. Apparently, this was a reference to the rumour that there is some dispute about Katrina’s nationality and thus, her work status in India. (And no, I hadn’t a clue about this either.)

But Deepika is just the first among equals in this bitching fest, for want of a more polite term. Kareena Kapoor and Priyanka Chopra, who began as good friends (or so they claimed at the time) now never tire of sniping at one another. Evidently, it’s all down to the fact that Priyanka began dating Shahid after Kareena dumped him for Saif Ali Khan. Priyanka and Shahid are apparently no longer together (do try and keep up!) but the ladies are still sniping away at each other.

Kareena was first off the block, asking Priyanka where she had gotten her accent from. Priyanka, who has been educated abroad, retorted with a tart: “The same place her boyfriend got his”. Then Priyanka was asked that if she could steal something off the computer of a long list of people (including Senior Bachchan and other Hindi film stalwarts) what would she steal? When it came to Kareena, Priyanka asked with faux-innocence: “Does she even have a computer?”

Oooh, you could just see the (Hermes, of course) handbags being drawn at dawn.

For some reason, most of this sniping and bitching happens on Karan Johar’s talk show. Suddenly in the midst of a somewhat happy-clappy atmosphere where everyone is laughing and teasing one another, you get a zinger like the ones quoted above. And above the sound of a million gasps across the nation you can hear Karan chuckle happily as he thinks of the headlines this little one-liner will elicit for the next few weeks.

Okay, so can I understand why Johar is happy for the occasional barb to be levelled across the parapet of the Koffee with Karan (honestly, what is with all this ‘K’ stuff? Doesn’t anyone know how to spell any longer?) show because that can only be good for his ratings. The more outrageous the stars get on the show, the more people are likely to tune in to get their weekly fix of cheap thrills.

But why do the stars fall in line so readily? Why are they so willing to say unkind things about one another on national television? Why are they so ready to be flip and bitchy about their colleagues? Why do they get so darn nasty with so little provocation?

Okay, Karan does tend to needle them a bit. But then, that’s his job as an anchor, to stir things up, to push the envelope, to make people say things that they otherwise would not. After all, his brief is to make the show as interesting as he possibly can. And quips like these go down swimmingly with the audience at home.

But my question is this: why do the stars fall for it? Why is it that in episode after episode, they all stumble into the same trap of slagging off their colleagues?

Is it that they are so comfortable with Karan – with whom all of them have done a movie or two and, no doubt, partied late into the night for good measure – that they forget that there is an actual audience out there watching and listening? Do they get conned into feeling that they are just among friends, joshing and joking, and that nothing they say will be taken seriously?

There may well be something to that because once the shock-horror reactions start pouring in, all the stars express outrage that what they said in good humour is being taken amiss. But, if you ask me, all this public sniping just makes me long for the good old days when stars concentrated on their pancake rather than their put-downs.

Call me quaint (and I’m sure you will) but I still prefer old-fashioned good manners over this new-fangled bitchiness.

Crime and punishment

One has to follow the other if our cities are to be made any safer

By now, nobody disputes that Delhi is seriously unsafe for women. But I never quite realised just how dire the situation was until a recent incident that occurred a little too close to home for comfort.

This is how it unfolded. My cousin (lucky thing!) lives in a sprawling bungalow in a rather tony area of Delhi. Once her kids grew up and flew the coop, she rented out the first floor of her house to a few young women. All seemed to be going well for a while. My cousin was secure in the fact that there were no strange (in every sense of the word) men on the premises. The girls were happy about living above a family which had a dog prowling the grounds and a guard stationed outside the gate, which in any case was securely locked at all times.

But a week ago, my cousin woke up to loud screams emanating from the first floor. She roused her husband and the servants – thinking there would be safety in numbers – and they rushed up to the first floor. Utter confusion raged. There were two men who had broken in and had chased the terrified girls out to the terrace. One of them had gotten hold of one of the girls by the arm and was trying to drag her into a room. She was screaming for her life.

The moment they saw more people rushing in the front door, the intruders abandoned their purpose, made for the spiral staircase on the side of the terrace and ran down. By the time their pursuers caught up with them, they were long gone.

The guards on the outside road swore that no one had run past them. That left just one possibility. The intruders had climbed over the boundary wall of one of the adjoining bungalows. By then, my cousin had a pretty good idea who these men were. They worked in the bungalow next door. She asked the girls who had been attacked if they could identify them. Yes, they said, they would be able to pick them out with no difficulty at all.

So, my cousin and her husband set off the next day to file a complaint at the local police station. They were told to go home and wait and the police would come and investigate. One day came and went. Then another day passed. Finally, the cops arrived, and asked to see the girls who had been attacked. They asked them if they could recognise their attackers. Yes, said the girls, in fact they had seen them in the neighbourhood even after the incident.

Okay, said the cops, don’t worry. We will pick up these guys and teach them a lesson. And we can guarantee you that they will not bother you again.

But, they asked the girls in tones of faux concern, did they really want to file a case? Did they even understand what it entailed? They would have to go to jail to identify these men. They would have to attend court hearings to give evidence. And God knows how long the case could drag on. It could be years and years. Did they really want to get involved in all this ‘jhamela’?

What do you think these traumatised, terrified victims did? Yes, you’re right. They listened to the cops sketching out this nightmarish scenario with sinking hearts and decided not to file a case.

So, these miscreants got off scot-free.

Now, what do you suppose will happen next? Will these men be chastened after the beating that will undoubtedly be delivered at the police station? Will they decide to give up on criminality and turn into model citizens? Will they now treat women with respect rather than as potential rape victims?

Somehow, I think not.

Instead, they are going to become even more emboldened, secure in the belief that no matter what the provocation, the consequence will never be more than a thorough beating – and that’s only if they ever caught and identified. The next time they go trawling for victims, they will choose some vulnerable girl who is not so well protected, and inflict much worse damage on her. And the odds are that they will get away with it yet again.

The recent Dhaula Kuan rape of a BPO employee is a case in point. All the men who have been arrested are petty criminals who have been breaking the law for years with impunity. And after starting out with minor offences like stealing cattle they have escalated to the point where they turned rapists.

That is why I think there is a lesson to be learnt from what happened one night in my cousin’s house. Allow these miscreants to get away once and they will offend again and again. And every new crime will be more serious than the one that went before.

Perhaps it is time the Delhi Police paid attention to the `Broken Window’ policy that was adopted by the New York Police many decades ago. According to this theory, you can’t ignore even something as minor as a broken window. You must repair it and crack down on the vandals who break it. You need to make it clear that no matter how petty a crime, it will lead to punishment. That is the only way to deter people from breaking the law.

If only that same lesson was reinforced in our own metros, we would all breathe a little easier.

Attention, please!

When there are so many distractions available at the click of a mouse, can you stop your mind from wandering?

Over the last few months, I have been trying to work on a new book, a racy thriller that I hope will turn out to be a page-turner (not to mention, a bestseller!). But the operative word in the last sentence is: ‘trying’. Yes, that’s right. I am trying – very hard indeed – to write a book. But I’m sorry to report, I am not getting very far.

And it’s all the fault of that scourge of our times: the Internet.

No, seriously, if it wasn’t for the distractions available at the click of a mouse, I would be half-way through my opus by now. I have written the first chapter, which is always the trickiest. I have the plot more or less worked out. I have plenty of thoughts on the twists and turns I could throw in to surprise the reader. I have the gleamings of a cracker of a climax in my head. And by now, I know my main characters almost as well as I do some of my best friends.

And yet, the writing is not going very well.

Of course I carry some blame for that, for being an undisciplined so-and-so who can’t keep to her self-imposed deadline of at least 500 words a day. But truth be told, most of the blame rests on my laptop, which is connected to my wifi network, and keeps throwing up interesting little nuggets when I am trying to work.

Suddenly an icon pops up telling me that a friend wants to chat on Gmail. Now, if she were to call me on the phone at that juncture I would probably not even notice (my mobile is nearly always on silent) let alone take her call. But there is no ignoring her on my laptop. The icon blinks on and on and I can’t keep my eyes off it.

Finally the temptation gets too hard to resist. Who knows what choice piece of information she may have to offer? What if she needs to discuss something urgent? The questions whirl around in my head until I concede defeat, close my word document, and press ‘Yes’ on that icon.

Of course, nine times out of ten she is just looking for a good gossip in the middle of the workday. And by the time the two of us have finished instant messaging the news of the week, a good half hour has passed. And so has the mood to work on my novel.

If it isn’t instant messaging on Gmail, it’s Facebook alerts that pop up to provide instant distraction. Yet another friend has a ‘Recent Status Update’ that he would like to share with me. Another has sent a private message with such an intriguing tagline that it is impossible to ignore. And then, there’s that link to a piece in the Guardian. Would it really be so bad to have a quick read before I resume work?

Of course, it would. Because when it comes to surfing the newspapers, there really is no end to it as far as I am concerned. I click on a link about Obama’s state visit to India, get distracted by a strap line that talks about the forthcoming royal wedding between Prince William and Kate Middleton (or Catherine, as we are all apparently now meant to call her). From there it’s one easy click to an article about Princess Diana and how she may well overshadow her daughter-in-law even from the great beyond. And so it goes, until all thoughts of my book have been chased from my head, which is now filled with conspiracy theories about the Princess’ death in a car crash.

And then, there’s my new toy: Twitter. No, I don’t really tweet that much, mostly because I have nothing to say. But I do get a tad curious if I get an alert about someone having tweeted to me. I sign in to check what that’s about, quickly type out my replies, and then get waylaid by what everyone else is twittering on about. It’s not long before I have been inveigled into a conversation or two with my Twitter friends, or, as is more likely, have gotten into an argument that takes up so much of my mind space that there’s no longer any room for novel-writing in it.

I guess this is an unavoidable fall-out of the Age of Information that we live in, surrounded by so many social media networks that we find ourselves quite lost in all that babble. And given this constant flitting between different things, it’s no wonder that our attention spans are shot to hell.

Well, at least I know that mine is. With all this instant messaging, twittering, Googling and what have you, I find it harder and harder to concentrate on any one subject. In fact, given the level of my distraction, it’s a wonder how I manage to get any work done at all.

Which is why I’m making a resolution even before the New Year rolls in. From now on, I am going to restrict my use of the Internet to two hours a day, judiciously spaced out over a 24-hour period. Who knows, with a bit of luck, I may even get down to finishing that book.

(Full disclosure: in the course of writing this column, I logged on to Twitter, answered a couple of emails, and did a quick Internet search for Kate Middleton and Princess Diana.)

One and only

Are only children happier than those with siblings? A recent survey appears to suggest so

Some of my friends who have chosen to restrict themselves to a single-child family are often disconcerted by the kind of reactions they elicit from family, friends, acquaintances, hell, sometimes even passing strangers. Their decision not to extend their family always evokes shock, horror, amazement, even a smidgeon of pity.

The questions come hard and fast. Are they really sure about this? Don’t they realise that their child will grow up lonely? How on earth will he learn to get along with other kids or even share his toys? Who will be there to support her after they are gone? Maybe they should change their minds about this before it is too late. And so on and on and on.

Well, all those friends of mine who have been so exasperated by these demands over the years can now heave a sigh of relief. For a recent survey suggests that only children are far happier than those with siblings.

Well, I guess, at a certain level it makes some sense. Only children never have to compete with someone else for the love of their parents. Their parents can lavish more money, attention and praise on them because there is no other child around to make demands on them.

They don’t have to cope with bullying by an elder sibling or make concessions for a younger one. There are no invidious comparisons to be drawn between them and a brother who is so much better at maths or a sister who can write so well. They never have to share either the bathroom or their books.

And when it comes to their inheritance, the whole caboodle will come to them in the fullness of time.

Hey, maybe my friends with single-child families are on to something here. Perhaps they are actually doing better by their kids than those who bring two or even more children into the world.

Okay, so these kids don’t have the ready-made companionship of a brother or sister with blood ties to bind them. But they can go out and make friends of their own choosing. At least, that way they will be sure of getting along with them. With siblings there is always the danger than you will drive each other up the wall or be at one another’s throats before Mom and Dad charge in to break up the brawl. And sometimes these childhood – even childish – rivalries fester well into adulthood, poisoning relationships and ruining family gatherings.

Certainly there are enough grown-ups around who profess to be quite happy with their single-child upbringing. They enjoyed the feeling of being at the centre of their parents’ universe. They loved the idea of being the sole focus of attention. And they really didn’t miss the give-and-take that comes with a sibling relationship.

Of course, you could call them selfish, self-centred or even self-absorbed with no interest in anything other than themselves. And there may even be some truth to that. But they prefer to describe themselves as self-contained. Having grown up in isolation they are used to being by themselves. And as a consequence, they have developed enough inner resources to cope with being on their own.

You may see them as lonely but actually they are just alone – and no, it is not that same thing.

But just as some people are content with their single-child status, others are actively unhappy. As children they probably pestered their parents for a sibling, as grown-ups they feel as if they have lost out on an essential part of the human experience. Some of them try and make up by creating big families of their own in an attempt to re-write history. Others content themselves with berating others who are disinclined to extend their families.

I guess at the end of the day, it all comes down to personality. Some people are essentially loners, who thrive on their only-child isolation. Others long for social contact and meaningful inter-familial relationships, and they can never quite make peace with their sibling-less status.

But even though the survey says otherwise, I can’t help but feel that only children do tend to lose out – sometimes in ways which they don’t even comprehend. Sure, they may not have to contend with sibling rivalry. But they have no opportunity to enjoy some sibling revelry either.

And I have a sneaking feeling that they are the poorer for it. The rich web of human relationships that are formed between siblings are lost to them forever. They may not have had to share their parents’ love, but there will be no one to share the burden of their care in old age either. And once they are gone, they will never be able to share the memories of their parents with anyone else. And there will be no one around with the same shared history of growing up.

They will never experience the special bond that forms between aunts and nieces. They will never have the pleasure of playing indulgent uncle. They will never enjoy the sight of their kids playing with their cousins, all of them united by a certain family resemblance. And they will never be able to fall back on the unconditional support that only a sibling can provide in a time of crisis.

But I guess, you don’t miss something that you never had in the first place. Perhaps that explains why only children profess to be quite so happy.

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?

Food for thought

Why does the sight of an attractive woman enjoying her food
make us think of sex?

I've read her books, tried her recipes, and devoured the results with lip-smacking delight. I've followed her career from the time she was a food writer at Vogue to now that she has become a global food brand in her own lunchtime.

But through it all, I've never understood all that palaver about her sundry television shows. Why did everyone get their knickers in their twist about what they termed `food porn'? What exactly did Nigella Lawson get up to with a carrot as the camera lovingly panned in for a close-up? What unspeakable acts did she commit with a rack of lamb? To
what evil end did she use dark chocolate?

My mind boggled as I thought of every deviant act that a grown woman behind a kitchen counter could perform on food objects for the delectation of television audiences worldwide.

I finally had the chance to get some answers when channel-surfing idly I came upon a programme titled Nigella Feasts (Discovery Travel and Living). My first thought as I watched the splendidly upholstered Nigella throw in cups of full-fat cream and ladlefuls of butter as she whipped up a humungous quantity of eggs was that the show's title was grossly misleading. It was less Nigella Feasts and more Nigella Serves
up a Heart Attack.

Suddenly, the secret behind that bounteous cleavage was all too evident. It glistened and gleamed, quivered and bounced with such life and verve because of the copious amount of animal fat, red meat and sugar it had been brought up on. Clearly, Nigella took her duties as self-anointed Domestic Goddess seriously enough to gobble up all the
high calorie treats she cooked on her show.

For the life of me, however, I couldn't understand all that fuss about `food porn'. Or `gastro porn' as some of the more literary critics dubbed it. Sure, Nigella has a rather tactile approach to cooking, touching – even caressing – her ingredients, kneading and pounding with feeling and slurping everything up with lip-smacking approval.

And unlike most curvy women who hide behind shapeless dresses, she does this while proudly showing off her assets in a tight sweater.

But `food porn'? Seriously! Anyone who thought that there was anything even remotely pornographic about a full-figured woman enjoying her pudding needed their head examined. And as for that well-worn cliché about how food is like sex, those who believe that cannot have had much experience of either.

I have to say, though, that the show got me thinking. What was it about Nigella that made people immediately think `porn' even if it was in the context of food? Sure, she is sexy in a Mother Earth sort of way, with soft, flowing tresses and a mouth that was made for licking batter off a bowl. And it can't hurt the ratings that her cleavage
shows off to best advantage when she bends over the stove to taste her spoils. But to go from there to pornography is rather a stretch.

Part of the problem may well be that we are simply not used to seeing women of Nigella's shape as sexual beings. The media is flooded with images of stick-thin women with plastic breasts and collagen-enhanced smiles. So the sight of a normal sized woman who (to the best of our knowledge) has not been cosmetically enhanced, looking sexy and
sensual throws us completely.

We see women like this around us every day but they become imbued with a certain fetishistic appeal when they appear in their full-bodied glory on television. There is almost a shock/horror element to seeing them showing off their bits on screen without the slightest trace of embarrassment.

What makes Nigella's performance even more unnerving, I think, is that she doesn't apologise for way she looks – she celebrates it. And instead of dishing out slimming recipes or offering low-fat options, she delights in all manner of fattening foods. As she once wrote, paraphrasing Oscar Wilde, "I have nothing to declare but my greed".

And in her persona as foodie femme fatale, her appetites are to be indulged – not dulled by a regimen of sensible eating. Perhaps the reason why people find something sexual in her blatant enjoyment of food is because it implies that she will not shy away from feeding her other senses.

Padma Lakshmi, the former Mrs Salman Rushdie, who also hosts a food show, doesn't evoke quite the same feelings. Even though the former supermodel has a fabled appetite (for food, I hasten to add), you can't help feeling that she had to have thrown up everything she ever ate to look this emaciated. And while her first cookbook, Easy Exotic, listed a model's low-calorie recipes from around the world, Nigella's
How to Eat embraced every food group, no matter how `unhealthy'.

Maybe, that's what accounts for all this nonsense about `food porn'. In our shape-obsessed world, food has become forbidden fruit, a guilty treat best sampled in secret. The act of tucking into a big meal – or looking as if we enjoy it – in public has acquired a tacit taboo at a time when self-deprivation is all the rage. And maybe that's why Nigella's performance smacks of illicit pleasures rather than an honest appreciation of good food.

Which begs the question, food porn anyone?