Photographer Rohit Chawla, 46, likes to shoot things that move. So his new coffee-table book The Fine Art of Food is an exception. Chawla ventured into the kitchens of The Leela hotel in Delhi and captured over 60 dishes prepared by chefs from across the world. Writer William Dalrymple proclaims in his foreword that the book celebrates the “skill of new India’s chefs”. Chawla tells Aradhna Wal why it is important for good food to look appetising.
Edited Excerpts
Does food photography demand a different approach?
I have a very graphic, minimalist sensibility to most things. The Leela gave me this opportunity to play with design. The food from the restaurants Le Cirque and Megu was perfect for the concept — to concentrate on the food and to not get sidetracked by props. Minimalism is like Haiku poetry. I had to evoke the taste. So I stuck to the realm of the dish, without using extra ingredients.
How would you describe your transition from high voltage fashion photography to minimalist food art?
Working in advertising has instilled discipline in me. That is why I could complete this book in 15 days. No one has done food like this — focussing on its design aspect. Restaurants like el Bulli in Spain made food look sexy, but even they haven’t done such a concept.
What were the particular challenges?
Since I shot the food from a top angle, it was difficult to bring out the shape and the contours of each dish. One hurdle was the powerful white light underneath the glass surface on which the food was placed. Its heat sorely affected the presentation. The ice cream would melt, so would the chocolate. We had three minutes flat for each dish. Which is perfect. Something that requires 30 minutes is boring. One person who helped me was chef Karan Suri. I could work spontaneously with him. There’s no rocket science to food or any photo graphy. What you need is a brain, and you also need to be quick on your feet.
What dishes made the best and the worst models?
The cover dish — Le Cirque’s vegetable garden — is my favourite. I’ve framed and hung it in my house. Another memorable one was the crispy fried red snapper with spicy mango sauce. William Dalrymple took one look and pronounced that it resembled the ‘Unswept Floor’ mosaic from 2nd century BC Greece. That was a happy coincidence. Indian food was hard. How do you make poori bhaji look stylistic? I had to pick food that was malleable, that I could set up aesthetically. This entire shoot is a tribute to Nouvelle cuisine that states good food should also look good.
Which international food photographer do you admire?
No one in particular. Looking at food bores me. This is the last time I’m shooting food. I respond to design, whatever the subject. The digital age has forced us professionals to reinvent the eye. Some stick to simple document ation and call it a pure art form, but that’s bland and lazy. We need to incorporate our style and personality into our photographs to push the boundaries.
Aradhna Wal is a Trainee, Features with Tehelka.
aradhna@tehelka.com
‘We had three minutes flat with each dish. Perfect’
Master takes
Compiled by Aradhna Wal
An artwork by Bharti Kher
Geetha Mehra on Art
One of my favourite pieces is Bharti Kher’s now famous baby elephant sculpture, The Skin Speaks a Language Not Its Own, exhibited at Kiran Nadar Museum of Art in Delhi. The museum itself is audacious enough to be located inside the DLF South Court Mall in Saket, and provides the ultimate accessibility for travellers and tourists. The museum is dedicated to Indian art and introduces visitors to what the country has to offer. The display is personally selected by Kiran Nadar. It is an eclectic collection of old masters and cutting-edge contemporary art. This juxtaposition makes it all the more fascinating.
Mehra is the director of the Sakshi Gallery, Mumbai
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Arpita Das on Books
The one book I’d recommend to any reader is WG Sebald’s The Rings of Saturn. It is an account of the narrator’s journey, on foot, through Norfolk and Suffolk. It blurs the line between past and present, and fact and fiction with dexterity. It is a fascinating exegesis on living quietly in suffering. Personally, I would call it a literary masterpiece.
Das is a Delhi-based publisher with Yoda Press
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Robin Mathew from Five8
Faith Gonsalves on Music
Five8 is a great Indie band. Their funk-based songs resonate with the stories of people like me, the quintessential Dilliwalla, who braves the traffic, enjoys the food, and battles relationships every day. The self-titled album’s artwork highlights Delhi’s concreteness as a Commonwealth Games jungle. At the same time, their mellower songs such as Believe capture a totally different audience.
Gonsalves is the founder of Music Basti,Delhi
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A still from Año Bisiesto
Aamir Bashir on Film
One of the most hard-hitting films I’ve seen is the Mexican art filmAño Bisiesto (Leap Year). It is Australia- born Michael Rowe’s directorial debut, and won the Caméra d’Or at Cannes Film Festival 2010. Shot in a single apartment with a fixed camera, the film uses the theme of lack of space to tell a deeply layered and complex tale. The graphic sex, violence and nudity tend to make viewers uncomfortable. But that is the purpose of the film. Rowe tells the story of a city through one woman’s claustrophobic isolation. For those who can stomach it, it is a must watch.
Bashir is a Mumbai-based actor and director of Harud
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Dennis Francis Dheo on Food
One of my favourite breakfast places is a nondescript little joint in Koramangala, Bengaluru. The restaurant is very aptly called The Hole in the Wall Cafe. It’s a tiny place that is always jampacked. You’d be hard-pressed to get a table on weekends. The menu offers standard breakfast fare such as bacon, burgers and pancakes, all of which are truly sumptuous. My personal choice is the excellent waffles. Order a plate along with the coffee or your choice of fresh juice. It has a very inviting interior. Warm and cozy, it is built like a living room. All in all, a meal here is a great way to start the day.
Dheo is a dessert consultant with the Grey Garden, Delhi
How to Dress a Rockstar
Aastha Atray Banan meets Aki Narula, the fashion designer who has given Bollywood a new fashion idiom
Photo: MS Gopal
BEFORE HE began to shoot for Rockstar, filmmaker Imtiaz Ali had been having nightmares of an unusual kind. He had been worried about the styling of his characters. Ali wanted a designer, who could be the “soul of a filmmaker, and one whose clothes add a history to your story”. The filmmaker soon realised that his vision could be brought to life by Aki Narula. “Recently, I had an emotional chat with Aki and told him that his clothes made my characters believable. He pulls out things from thin air, without much cost, and dazzles you with his vision. Despite being so intensely involved in fashion, he hasn’t lost interest in people, and that’s super important,” says Ali.
Designing for Rockstar was a day’s work for the 41-year-old designer. The trailer has a young Ranbir Kapoor sporting the small-town denim-and-sweater combination and later, pathani-style kurtas with arm bands in his rockstar avatar. One can’t miss the modesty with which Narula says, “I dress the character in what the character can afford. Maybe the character has a pushy mother who buys his clothes — so I become that pushy mother.”
Bollywood styling also needs a pushy mother every now and then to raise the bar. With his simple yet hard-to-pull-off design aesthetic, Narula has played an important role in defining the new Bollywood chic, a contribution that has made him one of the most sought-after fashion designers in the industry. This explains a rather elaborate film calendar that includes forthcoming releases such as Rockstar, Agent Vinod, Ladies vs Ricky Bahl, Barfee and Housefull 2.
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Narula, though, is no stranger to such popularity. He began his career as a fashion designer in Kolkata in 1994 and launched his own brand, Aki, in 1996. It was known for its unusual and out-of-the- box collections (in 2003, his models walked the ramp in ribbed shirts and embroidered underwear, and kissed each other). In 2000, he participated in Lakme India Fashion Week (a year after which his whole collection was lapped up by Selfridges UK) and, in 2002, he was appointed the design director at Sheetal Design Studio. By then, Bollywood had come calling. In 2005, he designed clothes for Yash Raj Films’ Bunty Aur Babli, a film that changed the way we saw Patiala salwars and kurtis.
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Cut to present. As he sits in a Bandra café, sipping beer, his mind still seems to be ticking. A few minutes later, he tells hairstylist Sapna Bhavnani the vision he has for her mannequins at her salon. “I think we should use that blue jumbo bags that all stylists use, the typical theli to create an outfit.” One wonders how a designer, who spots beauty in a blue plastic bag, can design for Bollywood where conforming to average glitter is often the only way to succeed. “It all depends on how you start. I did Bunty Aur Babli because Aditya Chopra believed in me. He convinced people to work with me, and then actors realised that the out-of-the-box stuff I suggest does work. I bought fake Nike tees for Abhishek (Bachchan), and for Shah Rukh (Khan) in Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi, I only shopped from Sarojini Nagar. But that’s the way I see the character. And I am a fighter on the sets — there is no bling if it’s not needed,” he says.
‘Aditya Chopra convinced actors to work with me. They soon realised the out-of- the-box stuff does work. I’m a fighter on the sets — there is no bling if it’s not needed,’ says Narula
Although he won’t conform, he admits keeping away from movies to protect one’s art is a silly notion, one that could set limits to a designer’s imagination. Anjana Sharma, head of Fashion, IMG, puts it succinctly, “Aki’s edgy, and very real. He’s not over the top. And that’s why he works so well in Bollywood. He can cater to the masses very well.” There is truth in that admiration: one does remember the tailors across the country busy stitching the patialas and tight shirt kurtis worn by Rani Mukerji in Bunty Aur Babli. With Kareena Kapoor in a lime green bikini in Tashan and Priyanka Chopra in a disco-inspired silver mini in Don, who can possibly deny that Narula has given us images that people won’t forget in a hurry.
Does that mean he has abandoned the fashion industry for Bollywood? “They are equally challenging. But if I have to design a line, I need to take three months off, and I don’t have that kind of time. Maybe next year,” he says. He did return to his roots this year as he agreed to play mentor to the Lakmé GenNext designers. It’s been two seasons now, and the shows have been touted as the best ever in the history of Lakmé Fashion Week. Sharma says, “He is so young and child-like that the new designers don’t get intimidated. And he pushes the boundaries for them.” An evidence of this could be seen in this year’s show where he choreographed designer Urmi Ghosh’s show inspired by artist Pablo Picasso’s muse Dora Maar, in which models walked like schizophrenic rag dolls. He also layered to perfection designer Mohammed Javed Khan’s shabby chic collection. Khan says he was sceptical about Narula’s methods at first but when he saw the final product, he knew it was going to be fine. Ghosh says, “He understood my thought process and brought it out in his choreography. He was also available the whole time I was designing the line. I could call him up in the dead of the night with my anxious thoughts. He became a friend.”
FOR NARULA, being there for Ghosh at midnight is a way of giving back to the industry. As you watch him culling out the details meticulously and tirelessly at the dressing room, and then later at fashion week, standing by watching the GenNext models walk down the ramp, you realise fashion is a serious business for Narula. “I had no formal training when I started. I learnt everything on the go. But people were supportive and I was appreciated. It’s my time to give back. I love playing mentor because it excites me to see this kind of talent in India. It makes me believe in the future of fashion.” But what about its current standing in international fashion? “Japanese designers are big in Europe as they mix Japanese sensibilities with modern designs. They don’t say: this is a kimono and now that’s the design. Indian designers need to learn from that. I only see a handful of designers who sell well abroad, because Indians still can’t do prêt. My question is ‘what is so damn exciting about you?’ Here, there is great fabric and finish but that just translates into great pricing. When will we do chic $10 tees?”
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The walk, though long, has been sweet so far for Narula. From being a child who would tell his mother which chiffon sari to wear with her pearls, a young adult who wore ties to meetings (he still can’t believe he did) during his advertising phase to metamorphosing into a fashion maverick, Narula has come a full circle. To wear an Aki Narula, you have to think like Aki Narula. As Imtiaz Ali asserts, “Aki doesn’t design clothes. He designs people.”
Aastha Atray Banan is a Senior Correspondent, Mumbai with Tehelka.
aastha@tehelka.com
‘In New York, 100 girls fight for that one Indian role’
WHO Singer, dancer and anchor, Shibani Dandekar has been performing since the age of four. Most recently, she hosted IPL 4. She also has a band with her sisters Anusha and Apeksha Dandekar called Dmajor. In between, she relocated to New York where she hosted the TV shows Namaste America, V Desi and Asian Variety Show. Dandekar grew up in Australia where she has performed at many places including the Sydney Opera House.
What was it like growing up with three sisters having same interests?
We are all of different ages so we weren’t competing. We always watched each other on stage and were supportive. Even when we worked together and formed a group, we kept our individual careers going. So, it was never a problem.
How did you retain your roots even though you grew up in Australia?
My parents were liberal. Yet, we knew we were different from other kids. We were Indians. We only spoke Marathi at home till we were 15. Our parents were stricter than most parents. They wanted us to know that we have traditions and cultural ethics to follow.
What was different about working in New York?
In New York, 100 girls fight for that one Indian role. Here, it is much easier. The industry accepts you for what you are. Luck, talent and hard work are important. It is getting hard here too because everyone wants to be in the industry. I have been on stage since I was four. Some people just want fame, that’s sad. For me, it is a part of my life
What does being called “hot” mean to you?
With my family, I feel normal. If you are pretty and have zero personality, it doesn’t mean a thing. You need to have that zing.
What do you think is your worst quality?
I have a really bad temper and when I get angry, I get out of control. My temper takes a whole form outside my body. But it comes down quickly as well and I feel super bad after that. It is something I am working on.
How would you react if you walked in on your kid smoking a joint?
I would be upset if the kid is 12. If he or she is 16, I would see it as an experiment and talk about it. Our generation knows how to react to such situations. You can’t lock kids up in a room. It’s natural for them to try out new things.
Aastha Atray Banan is a Senior Correspondent, Mumbai with Tehelka.
aastha@tehelka.com
‘My protagonists are like shamans’
CHENNAI FILMMAKER Leena Manimekalai’s films deal with issues others sweep under the rug — violence against Dalit women, child marriage in Tamil Nadu. Her latest film, Sengadal: The Dead Sea, based on the ethnic war in Sri Lanka that affected the lives of fishermen in Dhanushkodi in Tamil Nadu, has been refused a clearance certificate by the Central Board of Film Certification (CBFC). The Censor Board says that it made denigrating political remarks about the governments of Sri Lanka and India.The 33-year-old documentary filmmaker tells Aastha Atray Banan why she will remain a non- conformist when it comes to her art. Edited excerpts:
How did the fishermen’s lives inspire you as a filmmaker?
The fishermen community is very compassionate. Be it refugees or rebels who come to them, they help everyone, often inviting problems from the State. Almost every household in Dhanush kodi has a story of their men being shot randomly by the Sri Lankan Navy in the sliver of water between India and Sri Lanka. Fish ermen get dumped as spies and smugglers and are punished. Sengadal will expose how every institution of power oppresses them.
The Censor Board wanted to cut some parts of your film. But you have released the film independently. What is your take on censorship?
The Censor Board is a shame to our democracy. Institutions controlling content and deciding what their ‘subjects’ should see or think are a result of some colonial hang-up and a fascist attitude. I have gone to people directly with my films and there has been no law and order situation as the CBFC had feared. In fact, the films demanded intervention for the community. I can’t allow agencies like the CBFC to limit me.
Your non-conformity dates back to your childhood. How did caste prejudices lead you to rebel?
In Maharajapuram, my village, Dalits live in ghettos and the landlord class lives on better streets. Though my family had Leftist leanings and was seen as a traitor in our upper-class landlord community, we still lived on the better streets, owned lands and married within the community. My desire for equality, which I acquired through my early exposure to Russian literature and Periyar EV Ramasamy little books, was constantly battered by the caste stereotypes. As a child, I once entered the village temple when I was menstruating. And when I came back, I told my family members that I’d rather die staying in my Dalit friend’s home.
You were raised by a single mother. How did it form your childhood?
At 14, my mom married my father who is her maternal uncle. She used to say that I was born to her when she didn’t even know how a baby comes out of a woman’s body. I have heard her cursing my grandparents for dooming her to marriage when she was still playing kitti-pullu (village game). She wanted me to learn everything she didn’t — Bharatanatyam, Carnatic music, Sanskrit, etc. Being what she could not be was a task for me.
Your film Goddesses had Dalit women taking on typically male roles in society and questioning them. Do you relate to these aspects of your protagonists?
Lakshmiamma (mourner and beef seller), Sethurakuamma (fisherwoman) and Krishnaveniamma (gravedigger) are shamans to me. The extraordinary lust these women have for their lives made me feel so good about my own trials and challenges. I think, I question and I live and I owe this quality of mine to people like these three goddesses.
Aastha Atray Banan is a Senior Correspondent, Mumbai with Tehelka.
aastha@tehelka.com
‘Nobody spoke to me in China’
Tushar Joag, 45, is a Mumbai-based self-proclaimed “public intervention artist” who wants to encourage public debate. In a conversation with Aastha Atray Banan, he talks about epiphanies and effectiveness
What does it mean when you say you are a ‘public intervention artist’?
When I came back from the International Human Rights Academy in the Netherlands, I was disgusted with the art world. I felt this art was equal to navel-gazing. I destroyed all my artworks and became an activist. It was also such a slap of reality coming back to India. In Europe, I’d gotten used to opulence. I mean kids here don’t get food! The art I do now is not limited to a gallery, but addresses large public gatherings directly.
You see Sardar Sarovar and the Three Gorges dams as symbols of the frenzied development in India and China and have visited both places. What were your key observations?
This time I interacted with more people in India and blogged all through. I spoke to people about the repercussions they’d face. We think building a dam is progress, but what do the displaced get? They need to get their share of benefits too.
In that respect, does China act any differently than India?
In India, we have a voice, even a dissenting one. It’s not allowed in China. It’s very oppressive. Nobody spoke to me there. The locals ran away. My blog posts were blocked. I felt like I was being watched.
Che Guevara is your hero. But he is also accused of being a totalitarian. Isn’t that ironical?
There are always positive things you can take from a person. Even Gandhi wasn’t liked by everyone, was he?
Earlier this year, you locked yourself up in a 150×91 cm space for five days to protest against Binayak Sen’s arrest. Was it effective? What do you think about Anna Hazare’s form of protest?
My intervention may not have caused policy change, but my aim is to get people to debate key issues. On the last day, Binayak and Ilina Sen came over. The kind of response Anna has been getting is overwhelming. And if the public has been held to ransom by the government for so long, it’s okay to hold them to ransom now.
How has your project Unicell helped your endeavours?
Unicell aims to raise awareness about the immediate issues people face on a daily basis. One of our projects was held when the Maharashtra government demolished a number of slums. I started the Venice of the East project and delivered eviction notices to residents of upper middle-class households, saying that Mumbai was being converted into a city like Venice and their houses were in the way of canals. I delivered letters to almost 6,000 homes. So I touched almost 30,000 people.
What is up your sleeve next?
A solo show in Delhi in October where I’ll showcase drawings with objects made of paper pulp. It’ll be inspired by my journey from Mumbai to Shanghai.
Aastha Atray Banan is a Senior Correspondent, Mumbai with Tehelka.
aastha@tehelka.com
How Dirty Dancing Saved My Life
Exotic dancing can be both sexually liberating and fracturing. Aastha Atray Banan meets the proud and shy ladies who take these dance classes
Photo: Apoorva Guptay
BEFORE SHE won that naked man called Oscar, Juno screenplay writer Diablo Cody wrote the acclaimed book Candy Girl: A Year in the Life of an Unlikely Stripper, where she said: “For me, stripping was an unusual kind of escape. I had nothing to escape but privilege, but I claimed asylum anyway. At 24, it was my last chance to reject something and become nothing. I wanted to terrify myself. Mission accomplished.”
Unlike Cody, 48-year-old Meena Bagai sought exotic dancing as a way to become “something”. We’re in her expensive Lower Parel penthouse in Mumbai as she poses with a bright feather boa, eyes closed, moving her shapely hips to Nirvana’s Come as You Are. Much like the 1930s’s dancer Gypsy Rose Lee who emphasised the “tease” in “striptease”, Bagai’s ease almost make you forget that her son and daughter-in-law are busily lunching on Sindhi food just two feet away. It doesn’t feel surreal at all. Not after hearing her speak about her dancing for the past hour.
“I often see myself as an actress who’s super sexy when dancing,” Bagai flashes a charming smile. “I was dancing with girls half my age but I realised soon that my body was as sexy as anyone’s. I feel so desirable — and I don’t need a man to say it. Just look at me.” Bagai belongs to a group of women who take classes to learn exotic dancing to help them get their sexy back. Some do it in secret, some like Bagai are proud of it. Many have been doing it for years.
Often these classes are pitched (and gratefully accepted) as exercise routines — of pole dancing, lap dancing, burlesque and striptease. Instead of treadmills and weights, you roll your hips and try to make your body flow like a wave. Your rear sashays, your bosom heaves and your hands float. You might also throw in some pelvis grinds. Sometimes you use props — don’t worry, they’re not men — hats, walking sticks, feather boas, chairs and poles. But none of it is complete without the swept-out hair, the pout and “come hither” eyes.
Bagai’s teacher Shilpa Rane, 37, is a Mumbai-based professional instructor of exotic dancing who’s taught almost 200 women in the past three years. Rane remembers learning the dance in London from a professional pole dancer and being intimidated, even though she’d been a fitness expert for many years. “The kind of attitude these people exude is unbelievable,” she enthuses. “Only getting in touch with that hidden sensual side of yourself helps get it out. Though I was so fit, I never ever felt sexy. And somewhere I wasn’t even allowed to — because being sexy also meant ‘easy’. But this dancing made me realise what nonsense that was. That’s what I tell my students. Whatever you look like, you can be sexy. Just let go.”
SOME OF Rane’s students, though, are not so sure. They say they’ve gained a new respect for their bodies after watching themselves writhe openly in front of a mirror but they’re still nervous about social ostracisation, about being slotted into unpalatable “categories” of women. Advertising professional Simran Kapoor (name changed), 25, says the dancing has given her confidence but she doesn’t want to grab the wrong kind of attention by discussing it with people — it still makes her squeamish as she tries to square it with her middle-class Punjabi background. But somewhere deep inside, she says, she’s also glad to be a naughty girl. “I know now that at a party I can woo a boy by using my moves. And once I have a boyfriend, obviously I will use the stuff,” she winks. Then she adds more seriously, “It’s not about being perfect, it’s about being your kind of sexy.”
Another iteration is Namita Sharma (name changed), an outgoing 28-year-old who says she never worries about what people think of her — except that her conservative Rajasthani parents would probably be shocked if they found out she was doing such dancing. Her husband knows but she’s never danced for him — Sharma insists she’s taken the classes only for herself. “I’m a modern Indian woman and so I had major fun pretending I was a showgirl. But finding out your daughter wants to be sexy is not cool for parents, right?” she says. Then she switches back to her dare-all self: “What it taught me was that if I wiggle my hips or flaunt my boobs, I’m not a slut. I already knew that but now I know it for sure. Get that?”
Bagai is still grooving to Nirvana and looking out at her fabulous city view with a dreamy look. Who is this well heeled Mumbai woman who is getting her groove back with these exotic dances? Who is Meena Bagai? She got married at 19, got pregnant and was divorced in her 30s. So is this enough for us to psychologise her need to be sexy again? Let’s try: Just before her divorce, she lost her younger brother, faced the prospect of looking after a son who suffered from a hearing disability, and fell into depression. So is she now just trying to escape her life’s heavy baggage? One more time: She works for her father’s travel company, is a mother-in-law who hates cooking and loves to shop at Zara. So is she to be blamed for betraying the decorum of the upper classes?
‘Now at a party I can woo a boy with my moves. And once I have a boyfriend, obviously I’ll use the stuff. It’s about being your kind of sexy,’ says Simran
“I know I’m not interested for sure, but I get so many friend requests on Facebook — men, mostly. They keep asking me to put more pictures. Isn’t that so flattering? I love the camera. I love getting pictures taken. And they will be on my Facebook the next day itself. I look like my daughter-in-law’s sister,” laughs Bagai. Vanishkha, her 20-something daughter -in-law, grins in approval. Clearly, family support matters when you’re trying to feel sexy and not care what people think. “I saw a different side of me when I danced, and I knew that only I and my body could keep me happy,” continues Bagai. “I was swaying my hips and they looked as if they belonged to Marliyn Monroe. That’s the greatest gift.”
Aastha Atray Banan is a Senior Correspondent, Mumbai with Tehelka.
aastha@tehelka.com
Inside the world of a bikini model
Aastha Atray Banan
Mumbai
WHEN ADITYA Sharma was 15, he made a monthly pilgrimage to the magazine stand. Sometimes he had saved enough to buy. Sometimes he could only flip through. At 25, he remembers the girls, their big breasts, their round bottoms, what he describes as their “lusty bedroom eyes” fondly. At 15, he never asked himself why the girls in Debonair magazine made his blood rush. “These random girls stoked every sexual fantasy possible. Just looking at those eyes and those bodies made me want to ‘do’ them. And I did do them in my head every day,” he says. “It was also easy to think of them that way because they were in a bikini, and a bikini was only worn by sluts, right? That’s how we used to think back then.”
Bikini model Sunita Rambhal, who was on the cover of Debonair in May, could take offence at this statement but the 23-year-old is both practical and has a devil-may-care attitude. You may be forgiven if you don’t recognise Sunita, but that’s just because she’s not graced the glossier pages of a GQ, Maxim, Vogue or even a Kingfisher Calendar — the “acceptable” avenues to appear in a bikini in India. In Debonair of May, sprawled in seductive poses in a five-page spread, she spouts nuggets on fitness or the perils of being a model. Sunita had done bikini shoots before for catalogues and calendars. Hitting the cover of Debonair was big — even though the hey-days of high-profile editors such as Vinod Mehta and Anil Dharker and resplendent nudity are all long gone. A few days after the magazine hit the stands, a voice from an unknown number called Sunita and demanded she sleep with him or she’d be killed. When she filed a police complaint, the cop remarked, “Aisa picture hoga toh aisa hi hoga.”
In her Navi Mumbai residence, Sunita looks out of place in the small living room, with makeshift curtains and an old settee. A joint family that includes two brothers and their families, her mother and a younger brother, go in and out. No one even looks at Sunita, whose make-up and brown halter top is camera-ready.
Sunita lights a cigarette and offers us one too. She tells us, “Though we are from Gorakhpur in Uttar Pradesh, and I guess we should be traditional, my parents are okay with what I do.” To Sunita, the world outside is a little less accepting. “My neighbours stare at me in the lift with undisguised hostility. People I go and meet for jobs ask me to do the deed with them. I don’t understand. If Kareena (Kapoor) can wear a bikini, why can’t I?” she pauses, “They don’t realise it’s a job.” She takes another puff and smiles at her five-year-old nephew who is staring intently at his aunt.
“I have set some limitations for myself. I won’t go nude. At the same time, if I don’t show some flesh, kaise chalega?” she says. After college, Sunita sat at auditions instead of the graphic design job she’d studied for. A handful of Bhojpuri films, a couple of TV serials and 25 bikini shoots later, she doesn’t regret her decision. “I get paid between Rs 50,000 and Rs 1.5 lakh for a shoot. Where else will I get this kind of money?”
‘I can pose nude but not in India. I do bikinis because I can carry it off – I am super skinny. And society? Who cares,’ says 21-year-old Sony Kaur
Sunita’s is not an occupation for the faint-hearted. An Internet search for “Indian bikini models” will direct you to sleazy websites where hundreds of girls pose and preen in garish bikinis and enormous pouts. Only a handful of fashion magazines carry bikini spreads and to make it there — to its expensive respectability — is a one in a million chance. The magazines Sunita and her compatriots pose for are often sold only at the railway stations and bought oh-so-clandestinely. Even the Indian lingerie market prefers to have East European models who are too somnolent to be accused of any raunchiness.
This is also not the industry to look for the self reflexive. Sagar Mindhe, 27, is a freelance photographer who shot Sunita for Debonair. He has been shooting bikini models since 2005. When he does shoot forDebonair, he locates and auditions models who will follow the magazine’s brief of ‘showing skin’. The magazine decides which girl will be on the cover. Unlike the other shoots Sagar and crew do, this one is entirely pro bono. Being on the cover of Debonair or shooting theDebonair girls ought to be payment enough. Editorial input consists of a five-minute interview of the model for the vacuous nuggets that accompany the spread.
Sagar feels bikini models get shady assignments because they are perceived as “bold”. His tautology continues. “If some models market themselves properly, they can make it to the big league, but most are C-grade. Most of the pictures tend to look sleazy but I try to make them classy. It all depends on the magazine. And the model — the most important thing for a model is to be able to connect with the audience,” laughs Sagar. He says being a bikini model comes with some nasty baggage. “When I show the pictures in my portfolio to other clients, they ask if the girl is a prostitute as well.”
Photographer Kaustub Kamble, 31, emphasises on the short shelf life of bikini models, “Once they are 25, they better find something else to do. These days even 17-year-olds are bikini models. Indian girls are also not as good as their firang counterparts. Once in a bikini, they go blank. I think a good attitude matters most.” Photographer Jayesh Sheth, who has been in the business for three decades, has a less ephemeral checklist, “Broad shoulders, big bust, big round bums, flat midriff, long legs and, yes, no stretch marks!”
‘I saw an actress, who plays a Sati Savitri in a soap, going mad after a round of coke. I want to tell people, I am the real Sati Savitri,’ says Sunita
MODELS SHARMISTHA Chakra, 23, and Sony Kaur, 21, know all about the check-lists. Sony moved from Hyderabad to Mumbai two years ago. She has done a Debonair shoot and 15 other bikini shoots. “I can even pose nude but not in India. I do bikinis because I can carry it off — I am super skinny. As far as society is concerned, who cares. I am not vulgar and that’s what matters.” Sharmistha remembers when she first started out and her Bengali relatives referred to her as “gandagi” “For me, a bikini is like my body part, and I am just so at home with it. Most of the shoots are professional. If you don’t misbehave, no one will. Bas.”
Back in Navi Mumbai, Sunita shares Sharmistha’s superstitious can-do spirit — that if you somehow have the ‘right persona’, no man will harass you. We get talking about the casting couch. Sunita has a “godfather” in the industry. A horror film producer called Raaj Varma has given her advice on how to handle her career since she started off a year ago. “He has never asked me to do anything with or for him. If you have a persona that says you are not interested in such things, nobody will waste time asking you. Anyway, I do have a boyfriend. He is the one who told me to go ahead with Debonair,” she says.
This is not the story of a single girl supporting her family through a sleazy business. Sunita would be the first to laugh at such a morality tale. Her brothers, who run the oil tanker business her father set up, are well-off. A fact she is grateful for. “I have seen girls who have to send money back home. They just go in and say I will sleep with you, give me the shoot.”
As we speak, Sunita poses for the camera saying this is the first time she has been asked to smile and not produce a pout. In her conversations, you hear the constant oscillation between a world in which she is Sunita, a commodity for any reader to partake of and a world in which she is the warm, loving and well-loved Sunita.
Like everyone else, Sunita loves to party. You will find her and old friends at Mumbai’s JW Marriott’s Enigma every Wednesday dancing to Bollywood hits and at Blue Frog on weekends. “You won’t believe some things you see in this job. At a New Year party in Goa, I saw a model, the wife of an actor, snorting coke and smooching whoever was in sight. I also saw an actress, who plays a Sati Savitri in a soap, going mad after a round of coke. I felt like telling people, I am the real Sati Savitri.”
Wait for the switch. When the talk steers towards her body, she refers to it as a ‘product’. “As a woman, you are never satisfied with your body. You’ve to take care of your body. If you won’t love the product, how will the audience love the product?” Then the switch again. Sunita says she still gets the jitters when she has to strip down to a bikini. “These shoots are professional but there are 20 men watching — some who make you uncomfortable.”
For Sunita, there is always ambition to steady her between oscillations. “I may be doing a GQ shoot soon. And hopefully that will change my life. My aim in life is to do a movie with Salman Khan and act in a Hollywood film. I want to do an action movie like Angelina Jolie. You just wait and see. Until then, I just want to say this: I am an Indian bikini model, and I still have morals.” She erupts into furious giggles.
Aastha Atray Banan is a Senior Correspondent, Mumbai with Tehelka.
aastha@tehelka.com
An ordinary man's guide to terrorism
WORKING & LIVING IN MAYHEM: MUMBAI
Once a seven-year-old who ran around Zaveri Bazaar aimlessly, Rajendra Shah survived three terror attacks on the city’s jewellery hub. He tells Aastha Atray Banan why the blasts cannot break his spirit
STOCKBROKER Rajendra Shah’s office is in a dingy lane right opposite the blast site at Zaveri Bazaar. Two flights of rickety stairs threaten to fall apart any second. Outside, the noise of the workers carving design on jewellery pieces and the smell of freshly stacked samosas means this is a regular day at the jewellery hub of Mumbai. The stairs finally lead to his 6×6 room. On the wall behind his desk are pictures of Jain gods, and his father dressed like Jawaharlal Nehru. Shah, on the other hand, is dressed in faded pants and a shirt, and has a consistent smile that forces you into a Zenlike state, even though a blast occurred less than 500 metres away 48 hours ago.
Shah is 66. This is the third blast he has witnessed. In 1993, he was waiting for his son at the corner where the scooter in which the bomb exploded was parked. He moved away to get a cup of tea, and that was the father-son’s narrow escape. In 2003, Shah was sitting in his office, and this time round, he was walking to Khao Galli to have the regular evening nashta, but turned back to his office when he realised his wife had cooked for him. Five minutes later, even before he had reached his office the bombs exploded.
Shah has roamed the streets of Zaveri Bazaar ever since he was seven. He has begun to accept the ‘reality’ of bomb blasts but insists that it should not be confused with resilience. “What is resilience? I have accepted my fate. I know I have to live with these bomb blasts. Then how can I even worry now? What is, just is.”
Is he calm due to his strong belief in the supreme power of God? A strict Jain (he doesn’t even eat bread), Shah starts and ends his day by praying. But acts of terror, it would seem, are yet to shred his beliefs into pieces. He cites the example of his business card made in keeping with the Vaastu Shastra — “I made it according to what is right by the scriptures and it has brought me luck. My faith is important.” We almost choke on our chai when he says, “I want to believe!” He pauses for effect and continues, “I know this is not God’s will. In fact, he warns and prepares me. I knew that day as I counted my beads in the morning that something bad was going to happen.” Once the Fox Mulder in him takes a backseat, he turns philosophical, “The terrorists know what they are doing is wrong. Can anyone in their right mind claim this is about God? And how can it stop me from believing. If anything, my beliefs have become firmer.
After all, I have survived all three blasts.”
Shah’s father came to Mumbai in 1930 from Banaskantha district, Radhanpur, Gujarat. One wonders if surviving the blasts has given him a new perspective on life. He nods sadly, and admits it has made him a bit self-centred. “I know people rush to help when such blasts happen. But that’s human only, right? After that, or before that, nobody cares. It’s each person for himself. It’s all about being selfish. And that’s how living in Mumbai has changed me. I was an innocent babe in the woods when I first started working with my father after I failed my commerce exams. But now, that innocence has gone,” he rues. Shah then reminisces about his childhood when people trusted other people, when policemen behaved with respect towards the ordinary man, when you could scatter gold on the streets and nobody would take what rightfully belonged to you. “My home is a small one in a chawl nearby. There was a time when I had kept over 40 people there. If anybody needed me, I was there. But now, I feel maybe I should live for myself. It’s all because of globalisation,” he says.
Despite being a man of the globalisation era, he believes it has not changed him for the worst and made him greedy. His businesses have all been on a small scale, but Shah says that’s enough to keep him and his family comfortable. He started working with ball bearings with his father, and once he passed away, Shah became a stockbroker. “If I have made around Rs 1,500 in the whole day, I shut shop. Why do you need more? I go home and pray. One thing I may have to learn is that life is short, and if you are getting to live it, why waste time working or worrying too much,” he says, beaming that Zen smile again. “In fact, I feel it’s money that is the root cause of every problem.”
The smile fades and Shah begins to look concerned. “Not all Muslims are terrorists, only about 5 percent of them are. Politicians are to be blamed; security is not an issue, selective security is.” And then he pauses and regains composure. “What I mean is that these terrorists are exploited by the politicians as they don’t have money. I am 100 percent sure that politicians pay people to create panic with blasts. The rest is nonsense. This is the truth, everybody in the market knows about it. But we can’t take names, or else we will bear the brunt. Let me give you an example — I will be thoroughly checked if I brought in a few diamonds from abroad and be asked to pay duty. The terrorists get arms and ammunition in through steamers. Who checks them?”
‘My home is a small one in a chawl. Once I’d kept over 40 people there. If anybody needed me, I was there. But now I feel I should live for myself,’ says Shah
He has a point. But Shah is unshaken by his own knowledge of the facts that could turn a believer into a nonbeliever. He is adamant he will never stop voting. As an example, he talks about the time when he was part of a Footpath Parliament in this area that tried to look after people’s concerns. “We did it without bribe. It was 100 percent work. Now it’s 100 percent bribe.” He says next time he will vote against the Congress, but not because of the terror attacks. “Congress has to go because none of its decisions are right. The BJP can be the only option. But will all this stop with the BJP? No. As I said, it’s all about the money.”
SHAH SAYS what had to change inside him changed for ever with the first time he saw Mumbai under attack 18 years ago. After that, change has become something of a habit. And, though, he will now never feel like that sevenyear- old he once was, who believed in the good things of life and followed the selfless footsteps of his father, he is stubborn enough to not let terror consume the good in him. He also knows that from this day on to the end, he is the only one responsible for his safety. “I won’t change with every blast and I know the situation won’t change, because politics is just going to get dirtier. Inflation will continue and so will the terrorist attacks. I used to drink tea for 1 anna, now I have it for Rs 10. That’s the only change I can measure.”
Aastha Atray Banan is a Senior Correspondent, Mumbai with Tehelka.
aastha@tehelka.com
The Imam’s wrong call
Photo: AP
THE CALL by Jama Masjid’s Imam Bukhari asking Muslims not to join Anna Hazare’s campaign is symptomatic of a much larger malaise afflicting the community since Independence. It has nothing to do with the merits or demerits of the anti-corruption movement. One may have reasons to join or stay away from Hazare’s campaign irrespective of what community one belongs to.
Bukhari’s call signifies the essential character of what is referred to as leadership of India’s largest minority. It is no less significant that this minority is increasingly becoming marginalised, poor, educationally and economically backward, alienated and brutalised, forced to live in ghettos, cut off from the rest of society with hardly any political representation or voice. While the blame lies foremost at the doorstep of the government, the so-called leaders of the community must take their share of the blame too in equal measure.
Bukhari has opposed the anti-corruption campaign on the grounds that slogans like ‘Vande Mataram’ and ‘Bharat mata ki jai’ are not permitted by Islam. Islam doesn’t permit worship of motherland or even mother, he says. It is obvious that this is just a pretext. He is plain scared by visuals of Muslims offering namaz or doing iftar at the Ramlila Maidan. Self-appointed leaders feel threatened by demonstration of any initiative on the part of those they are supposedly leading. His ilk is threatened by any spontaneous move or democratic gesture by the community they claim to represent. These leaders have never initiated any democratic movement around issues faced by Muslims. But they always veto anyone else’s effort as un-Islamic. They have no recognition of a citizen’s democratic rights.
Since 1947, they have manufactured a long list of un-Islamic acts, going by the various fatwas. Women being divorced instantly and unilaterally, women going out of homes to work, girls without heads covered, divorced wife getting maintenance, divorced wife getting custody of her own children, raped woman asking for justice — a long open-ended list to be expanded at will and as per convenience.`
We have seen these leaders raise only emotional or identity- related issues. They don’t take positions on substantive issues facing the community and the larger society. We all remember the Shah Bano case but never heard of any campaign demanding education or jobs or condemnation when Dalits get burnt alive. The poverty and marginalisation of Muslims have not developed overnight. There has been a failure in genuine representation and political participation. And those who claim to be leaders must take the blame.
Genuine solidarity and support to other poor and marginalised groups is also not forthcoming. If only concerns such as education, jobs, women’s empowerment were given attention, the situation would be different today. No doubt, there is a sustained onslaught of communal forces in all spheres of life and discrimination and demonisation that every Muslim faces today. But s/he has to face it alone with no help from the leaders. The fight against communalism has also been very piecemeal and fragmented. The competence and commitment of the leadership is far from satisfactory. The utterances and actions of the leaders only alienate ordinary non-Muslim citizens, pushing them to believe the canards of the communalists.
At a time when masses are rising up across the Arab world making secular demands such as freedom, human rights, price control, employment, the leaders in India are preoccupied with what is un-Islamic or Islamic. It speaks volumes that the Muslim leadership made no public pronouncement supporting the mass movements in Egypt, Tunisia, Yemen, Syria and other Arab countries. It raises questions about fundamental belief in democracy and faith in people. How can recognition of people’s aspirations happen without recognition of people’s rights?
Corruption is an issue for every Indian as are poverty or rising prices or jobs or education. Whether corruption will be curbed with Jan Lokpal or any other mechanism can be discussed and debated. Today we are witnessing an anti-corruption stir, tomorrow it can be a people’s movement on any other issue. And Muslims too have a right to join any democratic agitation. It is a right given by the Constitution of India. The Muslim leadership cannot take away this democratic right in the name of religion.
Zakia Soman is a Founder member, Bharatiya Muslim Mahila Andolan.
zakiasoman@yahoo.com