Exotic dancing can be both sexually liberating and fracturing. Aastha Atray Banan meets the proud and shy ladies who take these dance classes Grooving Meena Bagai shows her moves 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
Aastha Atray Banan
Mumbai Home truths: Sunita with her nephew, Photo :MS Gopal 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.” Served haute Debonair’s May cover
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
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.” Change seeker Shah in his office at Zaveri Bazaar
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
Aastha Atray Banan observes the clinical eliminations at a fashion week audition
REALITY TELEVISION can make you feel like you have seen people audition for everything. As singers, as dancers, as lovers, as chefs, as tycoons. The rhythm of an audition — its competitiveness, pettiness, underdogs and judges — are all so familiar that it takes a while before you wonder: did television ferret out the authenticity or is everyone here pretending they’re in a reality show? This is a temporary runway in the Grand Hyatt, Mumbai and these are the model auditions for Lakme Fashion Week (LFW) Winter Festive. Ever since the LFW started in 2006, the auditions have held the promise to make a sparkling career. Nicole Faria and Kanishtha Dhankhar got their big breaks here.
Reality TV can make you feel like you have seen people audition for everything. Even to be the biggest bitch in the room. As each girl walks up in skimpy shorts, tank tops, high heels and does her little turn on the catwalk, you hear hisses. “She’s pretty but look at that cellulite”. “Too busty — she will spill out of the clothes”. Someone is auditioning to be world-weary and blase. “She just doesn’t have the wow factor”. After that remark, the dialogue from Madhur Bhandarkar’s Fashion sounds less stilted.
Some are auditioning to be exotic. Karen Lima, 22, is from Brazil. “Maybe Adriana Lima is my long-lost cousin,” she laughs. Another Brazilian, Keren Silveira, 20, who sang an accented Hindi song as the jury pondered if her height was actually 5’ 9”, only talks of being a Munni or Sheila some day. “Ever since a soap opera about India began airing in Brazil, where a Dalit marries a Brahmin, we all just love India,” she smiles. A dusky model from Assam mutters, “They love the East European look now. Maybe next season they will get bored and come back to us.”
Anil Chopra, CEO, Lakme Lever, and jury member, discovers that the Indian and international models are being segregated into separate auditioning groups. He tells the event management officials, “We don’t care who the model is as long as she’s a model.” Model Monikangana Dutta, a fellow jury member, agrees, “We are not in Paris. Yet.” Everyone is auditioning to be perfect. The general mood is optimistic, but a stretch mark can mean it’s all over. Malvika Raj is 20. When she was 10, she played Poo, a young Kareena Kapoor, in Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham. A Femina Miss India finalist, she has big eyes, a lovely face and a proportioned body. The jury notices a rash on her midriff. They quiz her about it. Then they quiz her about her stony gaze. Malvika is feeling grim. This is her second attempt. “There’s competition in every field today,” she says, “So where will you run and go?”
Everyone is auditioning to win. Of the 118 hopefuls who came to the walk-in audition on 27 June, only nine survived at the end of the day. Some models don’t even get a look from the judges, some get much worse — a laugh or a bored nod of the head. Only a few get that flicker of approval. Model-turned-judge Marc Robinson says, “You can see if the girl has that attitude. We’ve been in the profession long enough to get it in one look.” Karen Lima, Adriana Lima’s perhapscousin says, “In the beginning, it was all a dream. Now this rejection, this scrutiny is my reality.”
Everyone’s auditioning. Aastha Atray Banan is a Senior Correspondent, Mumbai with Tehelka. aastha@tehelka.com
Power. Money. And stars. The Moranis have everything. Aastha Atray Banan tells you why the brothers are the nerve centre of Bollywood
WHEN KARIM MORANI turned 50 in 2009, he decided to celebrate his birthday over two days. It is said that on the first day, Shah Rukh Khan and his coterie trooped in to shower their affection. The second day was reserved for the other and equally important Khan, Aamir. As a family acquaintance observed, the Moranis are part of all the camps. “They are too smart to alienate anybody.”
Cut to 30 May. Karim Morani was arrested and taken into judicial custody. He has been chargesheeted for allegedly having facilitated the transfer of Rs 200 crore to the DMK-run Kalaignar TV and pocketing Rs 6 crore in the process. He has also been accused of handling bribes in the scandal that may have deprived the Centre of a potential revenue worth Rs 180 crore.
The recent controversy has also thrown light on the Morani phenomenon in Bollywood. The brothers Ali, Karim and Mohammed and their wives are friends with Bollywood bigwigs like Shah Rukh Khan (believed to be Karim’s “best friend”), Aamir Khan, Rani Mukerji, Hrithik Roshan, Priyanka Chopra, Kareena Kapoor and Shilpa Shetty among others. While the tales of their friendships make headlines, not much is known about the Moranis and why they are so important to Bollywood.
The first generation of Moranis founded Amir Morani Fireworks in the name of their eldest son and step-brother of the younger Moranis in 1937. In 2006, the elder brother broke away to run Amir Morani Fireworks and the Moranis named theirs, Morani Fireworks. With confidence in the financial stability of the family business, the Moranis had decided to foray into Bollywood in the early 1980s with director Bunty Soorma and launched Cineyug Films, though the step-brother wasn’t a part of this venture. In 1997, they started Cineyug Entertainment. Many of their early projects starred the then best friend Sunny Deol. The Morani brothers had known Deol since their days at the Jamnabai Narsee School, alma mater to generations of Bollywood children. They went on to produce films such as Arjun, Vardi, Damini and Raja Hindustani. Rumour has it that after Soorma died in 2002 following a heart attack, Karim too had one that ended the high-wire game of film production. Though Cineyug Entertainment Pvt Ltd, an event management company, fast gained popularity for organising some of the most prestigious live shows and award functions.
Today, even after Karim’s arrest, industry insiders say the Moranis are the best event managers (with only Wizcraft offering any competition). Cineyug has been organising the Filmfare Awards ceremony for years now. They have also organised events such as the Temptations World Tour (2004) with Shah Rukh Khan, Preity Zinta, Priyanka Chopra and Rani Mukerji; Harshad Mehta’s son’s wedding with its 7,000- strong guestlist in 2005; Saif Ali Khan and Kareena’s show in 2008 in Sharjah and the closing ceremony of the Indian Premier League in South Africa in 2009.
What Bollywood vouches for is the professionalism they brought into what had been a fly-by-night business. “They have been around for long and are known for their efficiency,” says film writer Anupama Chopra. Critic Bhavna Somaiya, who worked closely with the family during her stint with Screen magazine, remembers the experience fondly, “Their shows are flawless.” They were the first to win the trust of female stars, and persuade them that tours abroad do not have to be shady, risky affairs they may be dropped into without warning. Visas were arranged without any fuss and they offered plenty of limelight to each insecure member of multi-starrer ensembles. The less charitable say (and no one will be quoted because they assume the brothers will be back soon) the Moranis are the blue-eyed boys of Bollywood because they have helped stars get richer. The unsubstantiated allegation is that the Moranis dealt in hawala money and promised discretion to stars who wanted to stash their foreign earnings abroad to later fund houses in London and Dubai. And if they don’t get a show, they’d find a way to sabotage it.
THE MORANIS have always been known to love the good life and have thrown some of the most lavish parties in the industry — a hospitality that could now come back to haunt them. Talk of how their multi-storeyed house in the expensive neighbourhood of Juhu, where all the brothers live on different floors, is wall-to-wall Versace is rife. Sample the snobbery: “No wonder they are so well-connected. If you want to get to SRK, forget his publicist, try the Moranis. Every single show or wedding SRK has done has been organised by Karim Morani. Throughout the IPL too, Morani was always by his side. They have day-to-day access to his house.” Adds another: “All the wives (including Karim’s wife Zara) dress up like Gauri Khan — with the same branded handbags and shoes. People often say that the Moranis are ‘all money, no class’.”
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Friends Indeed
Bollywood biggies the Moranis have worked with closely
Shah Rukh Khan Karim is the executive producer of SRK’s next Ra.One
Aamir Khan On Karim Morani’s 50th birthday, he hosted two parties. One for the SRK camp, and another for Aamir
Sunny Deol Went to school with Karim. Was one of Cineyug Films’ favourite leads
Saif Ali Khan And Kareena KapoorIn 2008, Moranis organised Saif and Kareena’s first show at Sharjah
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Mushtaq Shiekh, screenplay writer and author of The Making of Asoka andStill Reading Khan is kinder. “I have known them for pretty long and I don’t think they are over-the- top. They had parties if there were occasions to have parties. What’s wrong in that? Karim is a soft-spoken guy. We are just crucifying them now because they got into trouble.” He adds, “They made the stage shows spectacular events and their speciality was getting many stars together. And because they were the first ones to try it, they became that guiding light. This kind of success comes only when people trust you. At one point, stars used to say we will only do a show if the Moranis are doing it.” Step-brother Amir Morani, says, “It is unfortunate. But Karim couldn’t have been involved in something like this. He is very sincere and god-fearing.”
There have always been stories about the Moranis’ underworld connections, with most of the conjecture revolving around Dawood Ibrahim. But that is pure conjecture. Their closeness to power does not sound like fun. Their spat with Amar Singh during a Zee award show in Dubai made headlines. The story goes that Singh was upset with the seats allotted to the Bachchans and reportedly slapped Karim. Other reports say that it was Subhash Chandra of Zee who slapped Karim. Later Sahara’s Subrata Roy allegedly also decided to boycott the Moranis.
Karim Morani is the executive producer of Shah Rukh Khan’s Ra.One. Khan has duly returned the favour by producing Karim’s daughter Zoa’s debut film Always Kabhi Kabhi under his banner Red Chillies. Khan told a Mumbai newspaper recently, “Haan, hai dost (Morani). Toh jaan le loge kya? Are you going to penalise Karim, or me, because we are friends. Yes we were friends and still are. But whatever the law has to do, it should do.” Even Salman Khan came out in support of the family when he said, “I have worked with the Moranis for many years, and he is innocent till proven guilty.”
The Moranis won the trust of female stars easily. They offered plenty of limelight to each insecure member of multistarrer ensembles
A top CBI official told TEHELKA that Karim Morani could have escaped going to jail if he wanted to. The CBI had asked him to become an approver (as his role was a minor one), but he insisted the dealings were “genuine and that he had done nothing illegal”. Despite repeated attempts to reach them, the Moranis were not available for comment.
For the time being, it would seem Karim Morani has some tough times ahead. It’s possible all their transactions, business or personal, will be under legal scrutiny and the retrospective squint of everyone in Bollywood. Shiekh sums up Bollywood’s dilemma, “The industry lives in the confined space of a studio and the dark walls of a theatre. When something like this happens, they panic. It happened to Sanjay Dutt and Shiney Ahuja. It will be okay soon. They are great professionals and when they start working again, it will all return to normal. As they say, the show must go on.”
Aastha Atray Banan is a Senior Correspondent, Mumbai with Tehelka. aastha@tehelka.com
Illustration: Samia Singh RECENTLY, I travelled to Bijapur in Karnataka to meet some Muslim women activists. At that time, I did not think the trip would compel me to ask myself a very basic question: what does it mean to be truly in the service of Allah?
Accompanying me was social worker Tajbhai who is associated with the NGO Swaraj that works for women’s rights. At our first stop, we met about 60 women in the garden of the mausoleum of Ali Adil Shah II, Bara Kaman. This was a feisty group. Not shy of expressing their radical views, this group demanded equality and justice for themselves and other women. No one could miss their eloquence when they talked about women’s rights in marriage and society. It was, as I saw it, a no-nonsense group that had begun to practice what it preached.
A few moments and several conversations later, I realised the women were uneducated and came from underprivileged backgrounds. Pleasantly surprised, I turned my attention towards Fatima Apa, a member of the group, as she narrated an incident where she and her army of women activists had taught a young man a much-needed lesson. The man in question had eloped with a young girl despite being married and father of a newborn daughter. The Nyaya Panchayat comprising these women not only tracked down the man, but also made him apologise to the wife and the girl. They also made sure he deposited a sizeable amount in fixed deposit for his first wife and child.
Another member, Dawal Bibi, told me how after years of being tortured by their husbands and in-laws, all of them had decided to express their dissent. I noticed the pride with which she informed me that in the past few years, the group came to be known as the courageous samaritans who encouraged women to be fearless and interact with the district administration and police to seek justice. The word of their endeavour has now spread as far as Maharashtra and they are often called upon to resolve marital, property and children’s custody disputes. But they knew that none of this would have been possible if Allah had not been on their side. They believed their actions complied to what the Quran taught and were grateful to Allah for enabling them to help others. It was delightful to listen to their radical interpretation of the Quran.
But my happiness was shortlived.
Tajbhai and his team members had told me how they sometimes rely upon an Alima (a woman scholar) to help them in their endeavours. The moment we reached her house I was ushered into a private room inside with other women while the men sat in the drawing room. She was covered head to toe in a hijab. After seeing her, I was curious to know more about her role in helping women’s groups. She said she was merely trying to spread the message of Islam and her main attempt was to bring women to the ways of din(religion). As the conversation proceeded, I told her about the group of women I had met in the morning. She did not share my excitement. She said she advised women not to go out of their homes “unnecessarily”. Reason? “Allah wants women to be at home as they are nazuk,” she said, adding that if at all women went out, the Quran directed them to wear a hijab. She emphasised on the need to follow the ways of the Shariat and offer namaaz five times and fast regularly. All for the religion.
I wondered if wearing a hijab and offering namaaz had made the Alima a greater Muslim than the Nyaya Panchayat group? Horror-struck by her views on the religion, I wondered if the voices of Fatima Apa and Dawal Bibi were not Muslim enough? Surely they resounded in Allah’s ears as they are still resounding in mine. Zakia Soman is 46. She is the founder member of Bharatiya Muslim Mahila Andolan
Bollywood actors cannot dance anymore. Young choreographers and dancers are making an exodus to the relative creativity of television shows , says Aastha Atray Banan Flying games Choreographer Danny Fernandes trains Mayuresh and Bhavna Photo: Apoorva Guptay SOMEWHERE IN the fifth dimension known as Bollywood, someone is shooting a dance sequence right now. This is a safe bet because Bollywood shoots anywhere between three to five songs every day of the year — a figure that should not surprise anyone. What is surprising is the current exodus of Bollywood choreographers, saying the future of dance is elsewhere. In television to be precise.
For many ambitious dancers, television has become the refuge of choice. However, live shows in random venues, and even teaching reluctant children seem easier than bashing their heads against Bollywood’s walls. The main grouse choreographers and dancers have is this: you can’t break in unless you agree to comply by the ‘formula’ — leave your hopes of incorporating a contemporary lift in place of that hip roll by the door.
Danny Fernandes, Kunjan Jani and Savio Barnes started dancing 10 years ago when they were in their late teens. They worked their way up from professional back-up dancers for choreographers such as Farah Khan and Saroj Khan to choreographers for music videos, always keeping an eye for the main chance. Like everything else in Bollywood, the big break in dance comes only to the lucky and connected. In the past few years, they have stopped looking at Bollywood. After being one of the winners of Nach Baliye’s first season, they have been on the reality television dance show wagon. The hankering for Bollywood continues subliminally though the trio knows what happens if you somehow do break in. “They’d rather we copy the choreography from an American pop number, than experiment, because they feel safer that way,” say all three of them in unison.
When we meet them, the trio is choreographing a sequence for Dance Ke Superstars. “We chose Bhavna and Mayuresh for this sequence because they have done aerial acts before. Mayuresh is a skilled Malkhamb dancer,” says Danny. Malkhamb is a Indian martial art usually performed on top of a pole or a rope. Bhavna and Mayuresh dance gracefully in the sky for what Danny describes as a “silk cloth act”. With just two silk panels hanging from the ceiling to support them as they spin and roll, the act looks not just gorgeous and risky, but also strenuous.
The trio looks up to great modern choreographers like Astad Deboo but mostly, they watch hours of dance performances on YouTube where their tastes are decidedly mainstream. They love Madonna, Justin Timberlake and Usher’s videos for that smooth hip hop vibe. They dream of choreographing a giant musical, a la Moulin Rouge, with a lot of hip hop and pop moves along with aerial, water and acrobatic acts and a completely Bollywood feel. BY SHUNNING young, talented choreographers who could help dance evolve to its next level, is Bollywood sealing itself into stagnation? Terence Lewis certainly thinks so. An established dance teacher for the past 15 years, Lewis has choreographed for a few movies, including Ram Gopal Varma’s Naach. Lewis is now a choreographer and judge on Zee’s Dance India Dance (DID). “We need new blood or we need established choreographers to get out of their comfort zone. Choreographers should expand their own repertoires and also insist that actors rehearse and learn new stuff. People don’t dance anymore, cameras do,” he complains, adding, “I am smug about my television success because I get to experiment and see new talent. The level of dancing is much higher.” He confesses rather amused that he rarely gets a movie assignment anymore. “I am jobless most of the times as I want to incorporate contemporary dance, or Kalaripayattu, but for that you need an actor who will rehearse.”
Lewis’ frustration reveals that even established choreographers need to put a lid on their creativity to survive in the industry. Of course, as in any running enterprise, there are the pragmatists. Longinus Fernandes, who shot to fame with Slumdog Millionaire’s Jai Ho is one of them. He spills a string of aphorisms. “It’s the audience that decides what is a hit. The jhatka works because people want it. You need to learn the thought process of the industry. Maybe one out of hundred get that.”
‘I wanted Arjun Rampal to do this technical dance piece but he said he’d need time. Since we had none, he just ended up picking up dust and flinging it around,’ says Longinus Fernandes
Longinus tells the story of how he became practical. “For a dance calledJaanleva in Moksha, I wanted to use spears and make the dancers jump and use the spear in a unique manner. But I was told there is no time. Then I just ended up choreographing a simple jig. In the same song, I wanted to make Arjun Rampal do this extremely technical dance piece but he said, ‘I will need time,’ and since we had none, he just ended up picking up some dust and flinging it around. Though it looked great in the end, I learnt a lesson that day — you cannot want everything. You have to compromise. Now, unless the actor is Hrithik Roshan, I keep all kind of ballet techniques or advanced classical steps out of my choreography,” he says without any hint of sarcasm or pathos. Same pinch Item numbers like Munni (left) and Sheila (right) reek of predictability
Bosco, of the choreographer duo Bosco-Caesar that has worked in films like Three Idiots, Love Aaj Kal and Jab We Met, has a more optimistic spin. “There are no rules in Bollywood, so you can try anything. But there are limitations — of actors and time. We try and create steps that will get the audience ticking, or we just stick to the usual norms — make it ‘massy’ — and that means putting in the hip rolls and bust thrusts.” As far as dance technique goes, the simpler and more ‘massy’ it is, the better because the ‘masses’ judge a Bollywood dance by whether they can do that move at the next party. GEETA KAPOOR, the popular judge of DID, who has choreographed for films such as Saathiya, Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham and assisted Farah Khan for many years, including last year’s Sheila Ki Jawani, agrees with Bosco. “Choreographers should not care about the banner — big or small. Just do all the work you get. I have worked with the biggest banners and sometimes, haven’t even got credit. I often refuse to do a song just because everyone wants me to repeat Sheila. They get a choreographer who will copy my work for half the price. Is that fair?” Geeta draws the line when probed if she would like to change the ‘formula’. “Why change it? The formula works no matter how much it curbs one’s creativity.”
Television offers easy, quick and substantial money (anywhere from Rs 50,000 to Rs 1.5 lakh for a one-day shoot) along with instant recognition. You can even choose what suits you — either dance with and choreograph a celebrity in Jhalak Dikhhla Jaa or Nach Baliye, or dance yourself in DID . The dance-based show is a trend that’s showing no signs of going away, especially with Hrithik Roshan’s forthcoming television debut Just Dance. DID creator and Zee’s Senior Creative Director (non-fiction) Ranjeet Thakur explains, “DID is a platform for original work. The stakes are very high in Bollywood, so you need balls of steel to make it, and that’s why directors or producers shy away from using newcomers.” He adds, “Thanks to television, choreographers have faces. They get mobbed in small towns. They get paid so much and on time. On top of that, they get to be creative. Why would they want Bollywood?”
Bollywood does seem to be losing out. In Bandra, we meet the talented contemporary dancer Shampa Sonthalia. The 30-yearold daughter of the late choreographer Gopi Krishna (of JhanakJhanak PayalBaaje fame), Shampa was the first runner- up of Jhalak Dikhhla Jaa this year and intends to stick to television. “Here I get a chance to do contemporary stuff and push the limits of dance. I admire Munni and Sheila but item numbers have become so stereotypical now.”
But as most choreographers point out, the biggest hindrance for them are actors, who only work with people they know will make them “look good” without much effort. “Govinda will only work with Ganesh Hegde and Abhishek Bachchan with Vaibhavi Merchant,” says Kunjan. Choreographer and dance teacher Sarika Shirodhkar, 30, adds, “Shahid Kapur used to dance so well. But now all his moves look the same, because he will not work with anyone but Ahmed Khan. And all the actresses just want to do the same item number.”
Even status quoist Geeta Kapoor zeroes in on the fact that most Bollywood actors today can’t dance, won’t try and don’t need to because the choreographer and camera will do all the hard work. “I love DID because I work with freshers who are ready to experiment. In films, I only try to do something technical if I have actors who will give me 100 percent, like a Katrina Kaif or a Rani Mukerji. Otherwise, they have too many physical limitations. They just want to do two easy steps,” she says.
And though the dreamers may have moved to pastures such as doing live shows, teaching and reality shows, no one really gives up on the dream. That’s the beauty of Bollywood it would seem. As the gates get higher, the crowd just grows. As Kunjan says, “I want a Filmfare.” To get that, if they have to follow the formula, they will do that. Because all they want to do is get that one elegant foot in, and later, they swear they will change the rules of the game. That’s what many before them said. We just hope they keep their word. Aastha Atray Banan is a Senior Correspondent, Mumbai with Tehelka. aastha@tehelka.com
Shouldn’t we feel the ghost lick us if it’s 3D? Is the rape scene authentic? Aastha Atray Banan recounts the horror Ghost buster Ramsay believes Haunted 3D needed more gore Photo: MS Gopal HORROR FILMMAKER Shyam Ramsay seems to be an unusually generous man. He is happy to let Vikram Bhatt take credit for making India’s first three-dimensional horror film, Haunted 3D, even though Ramsay made one way back in 1985. “I made Samri in 3D many years ago. It was the story of a child who turns into a demon called Samri. So, when I heard they were calling Haunted India’s first horror 3D, I was amused. Well, let him be happy,” he smiles as we head to watch the film on a sweaty Sunday afternoon in Mumbai. The name Ramsay is film royalty when it comes to B-grade horror in India — it is the name credited with feeding our appetite for the macabre for nearly four decades now, with films like Purana Mandir, Haveli and Do Gaz Zameen keNeeche. Yet Shyam Ramsay is like a child excited at the prospect of watching Haunted 3D. “Vikram is a good director, and I am sure he has done something different. There have been mixed reports about the movie, but I’m sure we will have fun!” he says sportingly.
As fate would have it, his seat number is 13. “Well, look at that!” he laughs, before leaning in to ask with some shock, “So you really haven’t seen a horror movie in a hall before?” As one nods sheepishly, he winks in response — “Don’t worry, and don’t be scared. I am here, and ghosts are scared of me.” Contrary to popular opinion that ghosts must flock to him, hankering for a role in his next film, then. And so it begins — as we put on our 3D glasses, one hopes to make it through the film without screaming. Ramsay, however, is clearly hoping someone will make him jump out of his seat. Fifteen minutes into the film, as the curiously depressed hero (played by Mimoh Chakraborty), installs cameras in his home, Glen Manor, to capture the resident ghost’s movements, Ramsay is quick to point out, “This part is borrowed from Paranormal Activity!” Shortly after, as the innocent heroine is raped by a lustful ghost in the bygone world of 1936, and Mimoh reads her letter in his present day Manor, the filmmaker sighs — “…and this whole sequence is lifted from Entity.” As the ghost finally lunges through the air with its black hair streaming across the screen, Ramsay still refuses to be impressed. “Doesn’t this part remind you of The Ring?” Here is an audience member whose vast knowledge of horror films might give young Vikram Bhatt nightmares. When Mimoh screams out the evil spirit’s all-too-real and banal name, the audience goes into splits. The man at our side is smug as he says wryly, “Arrey, what sort of a name is Professor Aiyar? They are trying to be too realistic but a ghost needs a wazandar name. Professor Khurana, no one would laugh at a name like that,” says the Punjabi in him.
During the interval, Ramsay is pensive and seems unhappy. Are the 3D effects hard to stomach? “They are well shot, but they could have used the effects better.” Is it the make-up that’s making him cringe? “It’s minimal, very chalky. But I like the coloured contacts they have used.” It must be the music then, that is making him want to pull his hair out. “That’s very disappointing. There should have been more silences because then the dhamaka is better.” What is causing Ramsay to mirror Mimoh’s tortured expression? He seems hesitant at first, but then blurts out, “That rape scene just wasn’t authentic,” a dramatic pause follows. “The girl is being raped by a ghost who knows no concern, no boundaries. Then why will he not remove all her clothes?” As we ponder over this slightly disconcerting question, he adds, “All her clothes should have been torn off. She should have been naked. They could have fogged it over. But you needed to give that effect that she is not wearing any clothes. Now, that would have made it truly authentic.”
We are trying to hide our misplaced discomfort at the suggestion when he adds some more trivia, “That bit where the spirit beheads his victims — I did that in Purana Mandir back in 1980.” Are we on the verge of staging a walk-out? Surprisingly, Ramsay is still optimistic, “The second half may just be better.” But just a few minutes in, he shakes his head sadly. “How has the hero gone back in time? He can’t change what happened in the past. How will the audience accept that?” In a world where a ghost can rape a girl, and does it wrong at that, nothing seems impossible anymore. But Ramsay seems to be a strange mix of reality and the supernatural, so we stay shut. “No one will identify with this twist. How can a hero go back 85 years to save a girl? No, no, not going to work,” he mumbles, almost giving up on the movie. There is a moment of redemption. As the spirit enters a woman’s body and licks the girl with it’s slimy tongue asking,” Do you like that?” and then proceeds to molest her, Vikram is back in Ramsay’s good books. “Now this is a sequence I like. The make-up is good. The tongue effect is also well shot, though as it was 3D, maybe we should have felt it licking us?” he smiles wickedly, and we silently mouth, “No way!” AFTER ANOTHER hour of the couple trying hard to run away from the ghost, who just seems intent on tearing off the heroine’s clothes (though obviously that’s not enough), the film is surprisingly tepid. Ramsay looks pretty deflated as well. “Don’t get me wrong. Vikram is a great director, but this just doesn’t cut it. He tried to do something different. The fact that two ghosts — the innocent girl and the evil spirit — live in the same house for 85 years is a unique one. But I would have done three things differently. First, I would have made it scarier with more make-up, or more gore. Secondly, the music should be more haunting. Finally, and most importantly, they didn’t really use 3D. It didn’t matter if we were wearing 3D glasses because most of the effects don’t work. If I had this medium now, I could do wonders,” he adds wistfully, “I do look forward to Vikram’s films.” While posing next to a Haunted 3D poster later, Ramsay reveals his future plans, “My next movie is a horror musical. It’s going to be very different.” Was that the sound of Vikram Bhatt screaming? Aastha Atray Banan is a Senior Correspondent, Mumbai with Tehelka. aastha@tehelka.com
Bollywood may have killed Indipop but a small group of musicians are refusing to give up the dream, says Aastha Atray Banan All in one Meenu Singh IN OSHIWARA, they still have popstars. The Made in Indias, Miss Indias and Bolo Ta Ra Ra Ras have faded out of our lives. We don’t dance anymore to Malkit Singh’s Gud Nal Ishq Mitha or Baba Sehgal’s Manjula during a sangeet ceremony. But in Oshiwara, they still have popstars. Record companies are no longer looking for new talent and music channels are not trying to find the Indian Spice Girls, but the popstar dream has not faded for a handful of singers, many of whom live in this suburban Mumbai neighbourhood. Take Nandini Jumani. A few months ago, 20-foot billboards sprouted across Mumbai advertising Krazy Kool Kat’s new album Krazy Kool Kat Been Bajake. Most people reading this would have never heard of Nandini aka Krazy Kool Kat’s album. As Amit Gurbaxani, music writer and senior editor at Mumbai Boss, says bluntly, “Not a single person I know listens/buys/ watches this brand of Indipop.” But Krazy Kool Kat occupies a small ecosystem of celebrity of her own, with her own screaming fans and her own idea of what a popstar should be.
She has released five albums and performs the songs from those albums all year round in B-town India. In a slow month, she does at least seven live shows in small towns such as Nagpur, Sholapur and Sangli. In a better month, she is touring overseas — for corporate shows, cruises and weddings. For each show, she earns around Rs 2 lakh. Jumani has an extensive wardrobe of mini jumpsuits, hot pants and bikini tops — all “sensual”, not “sexual”, she insists. Her videos (which flit by on Zee and ETC) are raunchy with lots of gyrating and writhing. She largely sings remixes like Yama Yama, Kaante Nahin Katate, Sapera Been Baja Mein Nachoongi.
For someone who goes by the moniker Krazy Kool Kat, Jumani seems sane. Her Facebook status messages are unlikely for a steamy video queen but let us say, topical. “I am with Anna Hazare, but why isn’t Kiran Bedi in the public committee” and “Bhag neta bhag, Anna aaya”. No make-up, except a hint of kajal, dressed in gym clothes, with diamonds sparkling in her ears, she looks like a Bollywood wannabe who could possibly just make it. But Jumani has already made it.
The scenes at her live shows are more often than not chaotic — the largely male audience (businessmen, local traders or junior executives) doesn’t hesitate to express their affection for the performer and scream “Nandini, marry me” or “Krazy Kat bas meri hain” . Her lyrics are intended to cause a faint breathlessness. Sometimes her fans do get close enough to even touch her but her bouncers ( “I have 30 bouncers sometimes,” says Jumani with wide-eyed pride) are prepared for the jostling. JUMANI IS just one of the handful of practitioners of Indipop who are still splashing around trying to survive the tsunami called Bollywood music. Indipop has been dead and cremated long time ago. Today, record companies ask you to make your own album and a video before you approach them, and you still have to pay them to release it — the musical equivalent of vanity publishing. Their logic: pop doesn’t sell. Bollywood music rules the roost — at discos, weddings and even cricket matches. Bollywood killed pop music and, in effect, our many popstars, many of whom got forced into playback (Sonu Niigaam, Alisha Chinai, Daler Mehndi), or into judging reality music shows, and many who just withered away. What’s left are the likes of Jumani who admit they continue to struggle not only because they love pop, but also because they don’t really know what else to do.
Like every popstar, Jumani has a story of how her stardom was meant to be. This Assamese girl has an MA in history and comes from a family of professors. She wanted to be an IPS officer. “It seems so funny I ended up in this profession. My mother was shocked. I did a few ads and then realised I loved the camera. I am shy but in front of the camera, I transform. Maybe because I am super ambitious, and I know being sexy and wearing sexy clothes is what sells. But then what are our top heroines doing as well? I like being looked at when I am on stage. And I am confident of my body,” she says matter-of-factly. “What hurts me is that people think I am like my image. They think I’m easy, and don’t take me seriously. I’ve lasted all these years because I took the right steps.” She has been around for six years now and has rock-steady confidence. “I am Kareena and Priyanka rolled into one. I’m the ‘It’ girl,” she adds.
Not everyone is as lucky as Jumani, but that hasn’t stopped them for giving pop a shot.
As Shefali Jariwala was making a sensation with her blue thongs in Kanta Laga, poor Shashwati Phukan did the actual singing
Devashish Sargam, who released his first album under the T- series label in 2008 after seven years of struggle, is now waiting for his second album to surface. The 33-year-old Bengali thanks his parents for helping him survive all these years. “Music producers forget their own days of struggle when they see new people like us. It’s been a hard road. I was going to be a CA but I knew singing was my passion. And I didn’t want to give up. I have been told not to release an album. But I think if you are talented, your album will work,” he says confidently. His first album, Bewafa Yaar Tha, was a hit in small towns because of the one “sad song” T-series advised him to sing. “But my new album will only have peppy songs. It’s called Sorry Tujhe Salam. Great name, right?” he asks as hopefully as a child. A shot in the dark Devashish Sargam SARGAM IS inspired by the romantic greats such as Sonu Niigaam, Kumar Sanu and Udit Narayan. His next album (self-produced), has the kind of music he likes — romantic peppy tunes with danceable beats. He has composed and written three of the songs in the album. Now T-series will release it. “Usually albums don’t use acoustic sounds but we have used trash cans to give a new texture to the album. The lyrics are all about love and there is a mix of Hindi and English — that’s what I want to be known for.” Sargam hasn’t done many shows till yet, and doesn’t even know how much his first album sold. “Record companies will say it didn’t sell anything!” But he is sure he doesn’t want to give up just yet.
Much like Meenu Singh, who released her debut album Dhol Vajda in January. The spunky mother of one sits in her Lokhandwala flat, advising a producer couple about how to make a movie. Meenu came to Mumbai 15 years ago, first to become an actress (she landed a bit part in BR Chopra’s Mahabharat), then got married. She had always loved writing, so she started by writing a song for singer Bali Brahmbhatt. Soon, she found herself writing hit songs for Daler Mehndi and Mika. But Meenu couldn’t ignore that nagging feeling inside her. “I always wanted to be famous. Money doesn’t matter but I wanted to be in front of the camera.” And so, she decided to release her own album, which she has produced, financed, composed music and written lyrics for. “I even made my own video and then T-series released it.” In her hip-hop styled video, Meenu has lots of bling and fur. One song goes “India ho ya London shondon ya ho Amrika, bin tere sanu na sanu lagda sab hai fika fika” — lyrics she describes as “elegant”. She describes her style in a marvellously simple way: “I look like a foreigner.” She would rather perform in the UK than India and will keep releasing albums till she has the money to do it. “It’s my passion and I am just getting started.” Crooning queen Nandini Jumani aka Krazy Kool Kat
But not everyone has the money or indulgent parents to fund their dreams. Live performer George, who has been dancing and singing Bollywood and Punjabi hits for eight years, is a steward in an airline. The Delhi boy says he is ready for the struggle. “I’m trying to save enough money to try and release an album. I do live shows whenever I can and my friends help me get corporate events. And thanks to my cabin crew training, I am super confident. It’s a very tough industry and I shouldn’t even be wasting my time. But singing and performing is my passion. I am an artiste. Where do you go when that’s your scene?” AN UNEXPECTED twist. Krazy Kool Kat, the It girl of B-grade pop, informs us she doesn’t sing her own songs. She lipsyncs. “I don’t sing my songs but I do decide what songs we should remix as well as the styling of a video. While we process this information, she defends herself, “But I sell the album. Everyone wants to see a beautiful girl. I do feel bad for the singers, though,” she rues in her soft voice and then flashes a brilliant smile. She lipsyncs. So who sings her songs?
Enter Shashwati Phukan. Thirty four- year-old Phukan is the singer of many remixed Indipop songs, but nobody knows she even sung them. She has sung many of Krazy Kool Kat’s songs. What you will remember is the sensation- causing video of Kanta Laga with Shefali Jariwala. While Shefali was making a sensation with her blue thongs, poor Phukan did all the singing. As she says sadly, “Being beautiful is very important here. If you are not stunning, well you can sing as well as anyone fipossibly can, but you will get nowhere.” The Assamese singer, who has been in Mumbai for 15 years now, sees no point giving money to record companies. She’d rather wait it out. “My husband is a programmer and one day we will release an album,” she smiles. JUMANI WOULD be considered a Bgrade performer by most. Many industry insiders were horrified they would be featured in a piece that even mentioned Jumani. The Indipop industry itself is confused about how it got to this point. For instance, popstar-turnedplayback singer KK says, “Pop music needs to get back its lost glory.” On the other hand, KK also says that real popstars like him and Alisha Chinai were absorbed by the playback industry because they were talented and lucky. Jumani and the second rung, he surmises, just can’t break into playback singing.
Tulsi Kumar is 25 and strangely placed in this strange world. The hip, young daughter of the late Gulshan Kumar, and a part of the T-series empire says, yes, Bollywood music is the only kind of music lucrative for record companies to sell. Yes, you could blame the radio, which gave no air time to pop songs. And audiences so star-struck that a song or video without Shah Rukh doesn’t work for them.
Tulsi loves pop but can’t see a revenue model in it. “I took the reverse route. I did Bollywood singing first and then released an album as I didn’t want people to say ‘she released an album only because she can’,” she says, “but even that didn’t work. We just released around 36,000 copies, and that’s a very average show. People told me I should have had a star in my video and then maybe it would have worked. But is that what pop music has been reduced to?”
Tulsi went back to playback. She has faint but damning praise for other pop wannabes. Much like KK. “It’s really hard to break into Bollywood. Playback is cut-throat competition. So it’s great they are doing what they can to make their living. I am not planning to release an album anytime soon but will try and introduce the single concept in India. I hope it works.”
Meenu Singh has produced, financed, composed music and lyrics for her album. She says she’d rather perform in the UK than India
Harmeet Singh, part of the production duo Meet Brothers, who gave music for Do Dooni Chaar, has been on the Indipop bandwagon for a long time now. You may remember them from their super hit song, Mika’s Aye Bhai Tune Pappi Kyun Li, inspired by Mika’s real life kiss episode with Rakhi Sawant. Harmeet is completely dismissive of the genre now but he is also one of the few people who get what drives the pop wannabes. “Honestly, pop is dead and in the coffin now. I blame it on piracy, free radio, MP3 formats and the Internet. Why these guys are still surfacing is because they have a keeda,” he laughs. “They need to be out there. But I advise all my brothers and sisters who want to be in pop music, don’t do it. And if you do, have a back-up profession to rely on.”
That is something Jumani and gang knows well. But as Harmeet also pointed out, the keeda is an itch you just can’t ignore. “The camera and I have a relationship,” says Jumani, “I can’t even imagine not being in front of it. I love seeing myself on tape. I dance in front of people and see them go mad about me, what more can I ask for?” Meenu answers in a dreamy tone, “I was tired of my songs being sung by different popstars but I got none of the starlight. I’ll repeat it again: I want to be famous.” Aastha Atray Banan is a Senior Correspondent in Mumbai with Tehelka. aastha@tehelka.com
India’s first tattoo convention proved tattoos are well and truly yuppie, says Aastha Atray Banan One’s not enough A visitor at the convention flaunts her MS Dhoni tattoo Photo: AFP SHOW ME a man with a tattoo and I’ll show you a man with an interesting past,” once said The Call of the Wild author Jack London. He may have been right. The country’s first tattoo convention held in Mumbai recently was rife with people and their intriguing and candid stories of the past that just needed a tattoo to make them timeless. Some wanted to remember an old friend who passed away, some a lost love. But the hundreds that walked in and got inked, whether for the first time or for the nth, proved what the organisers believed all along: tattoos are personal mementos and not just a thoughtless way to while away your time, or trademarks of the hippie culture.
Shibani Shah, 24, who organised the event with her business partner Rohit Patil, 24, for their company Eventos Promotions and More, had been planning a convention since she was 17. She fondly recalls, “I wanted to get a tattoo of an Om with the Gayatri Mantra but my mother told me that she would throw me out of the house if I did so. But I got it anyway. When I came home, my mother completely loved it, exclaiming, ‘This is so not junkie!’. That was why we wanted to hold the convention, to change the perceptions regarding this art.”
The convention played host to 25 artists and saw almost 5,000 people walk in, many of whom sat down to get inked. Photographer Priyanka Shertukde, 22, who got a unicorn inked on her back, winced and clenched her fists, but managed a smile anyway. “I have been thinking about this for a long time but I didn’t want to get a butterfly or something clichéd. When Al (a tattoo artist) told me that unicorns represent innocence and purity of heart, I knew I wanted to get it.”
‘I got Om tattooed on my arm. And no, I am not going to cover it in office, let everyone see it,’ giggles Sonal More
In the stall opposite Al’s, recruitment consultant Sonal More, 32, got an ‘Om’ tattooed on her arm. “I just knew I wanted an Om and my tattoo artist made a design I couldn’t say no to. And no, I am not going to cover my arm in office, let everyone see it,” she smiles. Her tattoo artist, Abhinandan Basu, who has been tattooing for three-and -a- half years now, was shocked at the turnout at the convention. Even more surprising were the unexpected mix of people who walked in — mothers, corporate honchos, dentists, businessmen, social workers, advertising officials, husbands and wives — all curious and eager for their own bit of ink. “It makes sense because people in their 30s are the ones who can really afford tattoos. There were no ego clashes between the tattoo artists. It was all about the art,” says Basu. Roshan Paul, another tattoo artist, agreed, “I think this convention blew away all the stereotypes associated with body art. There were kids who walked in with their mothers to get tattoos.” IT WAS certainly a strange sight — as strangers sat next to each other and got their skin tattooed with their deepest emotions and memories, the convention was about more than just being “cool”. As two ice cream manufacturer brothers, dressed in identical office clothes — white shirts and black trousers — raised their arms flaunting their tattoos, and declared, “This is who we are.” It was clear — tattoos had got a new stamp of approval. Aastha Atray Banan is a Senior Correspondent in Mumbai with Tehelka. aastha@tehelka.com
