Sep 28,1998
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CELEBRITIES Print Paparazzi As the species of Homo celebritus becomes rarer, the burgeoning breed of celeb-makers create their own: fame has to be thrust on nondescript entities. A diarist's account. By Madhu Jain
Catching up with the more chatpata Joneses of the print world, the less glitzy The Hindustan Times roped in Nikhil Khanna, the society columnist who wears his camera like a cowboy his Colt .45, pinning down his target with much the same swagger and varnishing his delightfully petulant prose with French words -- like so much lip gloss on parched newsprint. Khanna saves his gentleman-paparazzo role for his Roving column in First City, a monthly that is the official gazette of the endless round robin of parties and weddings of what constitutes High Society: It's THE social register. If your party isn't written up here, forget it; it hasn't happened. And neither have you. So if Khanna gives you Nelson's eye, be sure you glitter or loud-mouth your way into the field vision of India's only IT girl, Malani Ramani, who's the celeb-spotter for the same monthly. Her Manhattan-Delhi axis makes the local celebs feel part of the international roster of the chosen few. But the high table for wannabe celebrities is Vinita D. Nangia whose columns on fashion and fashion designers have gradually expanded to include bureaucrats, politicians and party-givers. A short cut to honourable mentions: give a party.
"Diarist's pen, anyone?" -- it's almost come to this. Especially for the beautiful people. Fashion person Rashmi Virmani has a column. Columns by socialites proliferate: from being the subject of pages of Society and Savvy, Nina Pillai now has her own column in Express Newsline in Mumbai aptly called Dagger Drawn. Mumbai's Midday has several celebrity columnists: model Marc Robinson, Anish Trivedi, celebrity model-maker from Bangalore Prasad Bidappa -- and, of course, the mother of all celebrity columnists, Shobha De. Simi Chandoke, the most feared and coveted high-life chronicler of them all, who once had six columns going at the same time, has it down just pat: "I write about who's seeing whom, who's doing what, who's buying what. I keep in mind the reader who is taking this in as he goes in a packed train from Virar to Churchgate." Quite. Confessions of an editor who chooses to remain unnamed: "People jump to attention when Simi Chandoke walks in. Once Arjun Ramphal was buying her a drink and somebody remarked, laughing, 'Arjun, you don't even buy your own drinks.' And he said, 'Don't you know this is Simi Chandoke.'" Monday I could scream. 7.00 a.m. and the phone calls begin. Anybody who's ever spoken to or was at the same party as Protima Bedi and Persis Khambatta is calling to say how close they were to them. And here I am nursing this bloody headache after last night's binge on that foul-smelling turquoise drink that smelled like my chemistry lab in college. Curucava or some name which sounded like the Japanese filmmaker my arty colleagues keep raving about. Just when I'd gotten used to white wine. Why can't I have my Rooh Afza like I used to before I started these society pages? Anyway, this society lady kept blubbering on about how close Protima was to her. I could hear her crocodile sobs as she read out bits of Protima's last letter to her which she said I could publish if I put her name in my column. As bait she even offered me juicy bits about the latest man in Protima's life. Gosh, now people think they can become celebrities by signing themselves up as the closest friends of freshly dead celebrities. You'd think celebritydom can be tossed from the grave, like a bouquet from a bride. Well, I suppose if Princess Diana's brother can do it so can our little aspiring princesses. Tuesday
Still not enough, had the Backbite Column to fill. Thank God for Sylvie, the crossdressing hairdresser who's always outdoing himself. At this celebrity cook-in -- there are too many of these now with even a doctor becoming celebrity for the day -- Sylvie couldn't sit down without breaking the laws of obscenity: his black mini had got even more minus and his eye-shadow so thick he looked like Liz Taylor doing her Cleopatra number. I know we featured him (giggle, should I say her?) last week and that snobbish guy who goes around parties with his camera wrote sneeringly about him for our rival paper but then Sylvie's such good copy. Wednesday Headache worse. Couldn't help myself at the Australian Embassy reception. The wine was light but those glasses were much bigger. Had had a rough day. We'd done an item earlier this week on this socialite who was the driving force behind the charity dinner with the fashion show for street children which had the creations of Rohit Bal, Suneet Verma, Ravi Bajaj, J.J. Vallaya and others at the French ambassador's. Well, this other rival socialite -- who does jewellery when she's not globe-trotting spending her husband's fortune made in shoes -- called to harangue me for a full 45 minutes inquiring about why we never covered her work for charity. Now she was going to do one for stray dogs, cats, goats and cows who couldn't find a loving home. And if we did not write about that we could come and photograph her new farmhouse with deer running through its sylvan expanse. Barely had I put the phone down a tissue-wrapped bottle of Moet Chandon arrived. And that put paid to all resolutions. Hic ... But now what do I do for our Chattering Classes page? Have to make do with Jatin Kochar. Ya, I know, we've put him in so often but then this is not the same Jatin. He keeps re-inventing himself. Gone and got himself a nose job. Don't know why, he had a rather nice nose. This one's turned out worse. And then that mop of his got thin. So did he. And now he must have got a hair weave or something. Ha! old wine in a new bottle. Thursday Have to plan for the weekend supplement. Fed up with all these colour ads, how the hell am I supposed to fill these columns which are multiplying like horny rabbits. Went to three parties, a fashion show, three art-show inaugurations, a celebrity cook-in and a book reading by the pretty looking NRI author whose hair falls in cascades. The publisher called me to announce she is even sexier than Shobha De. That's all very well but De after De (clever aren't I, couldn't resist that one) I have to find some wretched famous person. So, I asked my photo department to take out glam pix, long-legged models, and those MTV and Channel V girls and hunks who just about croak out a song. We got our Mumbai office to send pix of starlets at some sidey mahurat and then asked this really imaginative trainee to whip up some prose to make the items look fresh or, at the very least, interesting. Fortunately Hyatt had its celebrity cook day: this expert in pre-stressed concrete and clad top to toe in Gucci was the chief guest, and his guests, who included a dancer who should have danced her last pas de deux a decade ago, joined in waving her ladle while she went dhak dhak. Still short for our Flavour-of-the-day-People. Eureka! It was ladies night at the Bells disco celebrating its fifth year; so sent the photographer. Came up trumps: pix of an ex-Congress minister's daughter popping out of her minimal Versace number, her long cigarette holder glistening in the strobe light. You can't beat our photographer round town: he even got a quote from her about the nuclear bomb and whether she would do the Jaya Amma if she were the PM. Quite unprintable. Got my celeb count. But now the boss who's moved up the social register in the last three months by getting himself clicked with starlets and has-been actresses complains that our pages look tacky, not classy enough. Forgotten where he's from I'd say, and just look at him going around with that starlet who dresses like puss in riding boots. Anyway, he's now hired this 30-something lady to cover the high society events; she comes from the la-di-da set and her solitaires are as big as her wrist, oops, meant the Ritz. Friday Bad day. Boss got a thing about this almost-has-been movie star and wanted me to go along with him to this salwar-kameez shop she had come down from Mumbai to inaugurate. I had to take her shopping the whole day. Then I had to rack my brain to get her pix into our Backbite column. Phew! If this were not enough, a call from the boss's boss, the owner: there's this voluptuous fashion designer whom he has designs on -- had to go to the opening of an art exhibition so I could weave a whole item round this painter. She says she was Miss India and has tresses that look like the computer-enhanced hair in those fancy shampoo ads on TV. She does those B Prabha updates of Rajasthani hunks and belles against sand dunes. Went to bed with two aspirins. Worried: tomorrow's deadline day and not enough celebs. Perhaps I'll have to go to the dog show. The Maharani of Chotisibaat has entered her poodle and we can get pix of its diamond collar from Cartier. And when it rains, it pours, bad luck. Boss's boss wants us to feature Ritu Beri once again. If it's not her pets and poodles, it's her pet peeves. She's Miss Everywhere. Imagine, just a few years ago she'd sit in our office chatting up the lowliest sub trying to get a small mention in the papers. And then this pr agency got working on her, and now she's the Godzilla of the celebs: hair does matter. Saturday My mother called this morning, furious. "Who are these mochis, bawarchis and nais (shoemakers, cooks and hairdressers) you keep writing about? Did we send you to Columbia School of Journalism for this?" Ouch. But then there are compensations. Akshay Kumar called to say he really liked the way I wrote. I told my mother all these snootys were falling over themselves calling me up. Just today this prominent industrialist called to say his home was now worthy of being written about because he had moved into a sprawling mansion in Amitabh Bachchan's neighbourhood. Then Rina Dhaka called, asking me to rush a photographer over because Supernova model Naomi Campbell was coming to her house to bathe before her "audience" with her spiritual guru. Tell you a little secret: neo-charity lady Nafisa Ali wanted her to go to HER house and soak in her tub and the two ladies fought over the right, their designer smiles flashing like rapiers in a duel at high noon. Well, I suppose it was Advantage Dhaka and a chance for us to capture the epiphanous moment when Campbell emerged out of her graced bathroom like a dusky Botticelli Primavera stepping out of a foamy sea. To the click, click of instant celebritydom of, well, Ms Dhaka. Sunday Ugh. Couldn't get out of bed. The liver's sluggish. No more clothes left: can't go on wearing the same outfit that debut designer gave me. Unplugged the phone. So many rang to tell me what happened Saturday night at the parties they went to and who passed out or who was screwing who in the loo, these guys think I am dumb or something; that just coz they give me some juicy titbits, I'd put their names in my columns. I'm getting bored. Think I'll concentrate on bureaucrats: at least our lights won't keep going off all the time, and I do want that new plot coming up near Asian Games' Village. Monday Monday. Again!! Black Monday. Dear Diary, would you believe this letter a reader sent me from some place in Punjabi Bagh. It was really obscene: "Why should I care about what all these celebrities of yours are eating or farting. And who's Rohit Bal??" |
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The age of celebrity is upon us in
metropolitan India. Instant Polaroid celebrity. Instant Polaroid fade-outs. Finally, Andy
Warhol's prescription of "fifteen minutes of fame" for every mortal. It had to:
the media today has an insatiable hunger for celebrities. Newspapers, magazines,
television, they guzzle "faces" like an old Cadillac does petrol. People pages
multiply, newspaper supplements come out like diluted versions of Hello and Vanity Fair
and High Life. Editors hire more and more celeb-spotters. And as the species of Homo
celebritus becomes rarer, the burgeoning breed of celeb-makers create their own: fame has
to be thrust on people. So pity the poor celeb-hawk. Those he now stalks are nowhere near
the originals: Husain and his bare feet, Protima and her enduringly famous streak on the
beach, Livleen Sharma and her armfuls of silver. So, some just put words into beautiful
mouths. Why, just the other day model-actor Milind Soman -- whose beauty would have made
Michelangelo rethink his vision of David -- was asked his views on the current political
situation. 
Sometimes the celebrity-spotters become
celebrities, moving into the glare from backstage. As did Malani when a rival columnist
caught her unawares in a candid camera moment, perched on a lap, the mini revealing more
than intended. But there's a sunny side up; she's also endorsing a certain national daily
along with celebrities like K.P.S. Gill and Kiran Bedi. The message: if she reads it, you
are missing something if you don't. 
Really odd at dinner after the fashion
show at the Taj. My tummy's acting weird after those funny rubbery things that looked like
worms. Had to pretend I'd been weaned on snails when my parents took me around in a pram
in Montmartre. Nipped by for drinks at Ms Snooty Garmentexportwala, hunting celebs for my
High Life column. It was numbers day: had to get at least 20 celebs. This was a do for the
unveiling of her portrait painted by the wife of the ambassador of some moussaka-eating
country. Gosh, did she look regal perched on her fake Louis XV chair in her monster pearls
-- like a queen. They were going on and on about Lebanese food. Didn't taste very
different from the aloo pakodas my Ramu makes. Had too many though. No wonder I can't get
into my Tina Ambani outfit now. Could only get five celebs, had to cook up some more. So
sent my long-nosed Snoopyrani, the new trainee, to the Oasis discotheque. You know she's
really into investigative journalism. She went to the loo and overheard former Miss India
or Asia Pacific Ruchi Malhotra shrieking that she must be pregnant: "I'm a day late
..." Wow, what a scoop, even though it wasn't true. 
