The "It" Girl
Full of beans (and other narcotics), she’s the Girl of the Moment. Surrounded by a scream of groupies—lady boys, boy boys and regulation Ugly Friend—she rules the night for the winter season. To nurture and to be nurtured is her motto—that is why she is so beloved. An icon of fashion, her monthly tote-up gives daddy ulcers. Her big fear? Her featuring in one of those, "Whatever Happened To..." articles. Her rating? Depends on how she held the stage the night before.
The Home Maker
Lalitaji now Super Refined—and savvier—over the years. Zapped to the 21st century, she is less mataji, and more auntyji. However, she still knows what school is right, where the best bargain basement sales are and how to beat down the sabziwalla with a kadoo. Practical to the bone, she will regurgitate and redo last night’s leftovers into "Bake Surprise" for lunch. Her landing light red bindi has been replaced with a designer something, denoting a gentler, kinder her. However, make no mistake, she will squat on her mother-in-law, slap around the kids and stop her husband’s ciggie money if need be—all this whilst watching the newest soap on TV. Still, she’s mummy to everyone. Rating: B+
The Page Three Diva
Captured (for that particular morning) in an amber of popping flashlights, the ptd lives for a minor Warholian moment—she needs less than fifteen seconds. Like a druggie, she thirsts for her zap and flash fix. Her act before the camera would pale Swanson—let me be, oh! leave me, stop, oh, all right then—this two-step autoerotic tango with a cameraman continues night after night. Who is she then? She is Ms Nobody or Ms Somebody—actress, activist, socialist, socialite. She wants to be famous for being famous. By afternoon, her face is wrapped around the fish and veggies her cook is buying. By evening, she is all set to hit the klieg lights again. Rating: Depends on the lighting, A+ or D-.
The Boss
In a sea of men, she stands out beacon-like. Encased in bulletproof titanium—all the better to fend off all those thrusting, pushy guys—she has evolved from an ingenue into a self-confident working woman. Her abilities to listen, to be more compassionate, puts her miles ahead of her male colleagues, which, often, is why she is their boss. She juggles work, children and husband with elan. Sometimes, this makes her a snarling ball-buster. Often, this gets her that whopping raise. Rating: A- and on the rise.
The Activist
The spreading map of sweat under her arms is as limitless as her passion, and her ambition. Her passions, the environment, water, seedlings, education, ensure she is on an aeroplane quite nearly always—she is a Set Jetter. This is a busy life, there are summits to attend, working groups to address, papers to read, dharnas to lead—all in crinkled cotton. But has all of it genuinely empowered people? Will she shed her fear of that dreaded word—profit? Far from ikat, and wooden gudda-guddis, she thinks inward, and looks forward to the Ford Foundation for inspiration. Rating: C-
The Political Wannabe
She’s the filly you see pawing the earth impatiently next to the nags in the political stable. She’ll grab a cause, any cause, to see and to be seen. Usually well-connected and well-born, she is the girl who always wanted to be noticed, to be nice. And actually, she is nice for her causes do draw attention in their haphazard, galumphing schoolgirl way. She’s an ass, but an affable one and her inherent kindness will never harm anyone. Now, will someone please hand her that party ticket! Rating: C+
The Jet Setter
Her accessories—Mandarina Duck handbag, La Prairie Caviar moisturising cream, Evian spritzer, tonic ("lemon peel, no ice") before take-off—are dinky little offerings to the God of Jets. Her prayer is simple, breathtaking in its simplicity—May I always Turn Left in an Aircraft—and thus onto First Class. Single or attached, her tan’s the only thing permanent about her. Skiing in Aspen, cruise in the Greek isles, sit-down in Irish castle—her world is a blur of aircraft lounges. She belongs to that privileged class that speaks that strange tribal language, not unlike the sort that clicks and flips like signs on an airport display board; DelPar/LonNY,NYLon,LaxDul.
The Intellectual
Dusty and prickly, she believes she is the centre of gravity of all things intellectual—her belief is not altogether misguided. She may look down her nose in pity at those who think that Nietzsche and Nike are quite the same thing, but she has the compassion to understand that there are people who simply don’t want to know. Voluble and vital, she sets the thinking standard alive—be it the arts, music, literature or politics. In a society that is dumbing down by the minute, she may be the last hope. Rating: The same trp as the TV programme she’s on.
The Artist/Writer
Mirror images of each other—vain, powerful and talented—they keep their fawning puppets swinging from silk strings. They purr, the puppets fawn—these divas have it going! Their works—the massive, new oil or the signed first edition—are coveted like gold and are displayed like prize trophies. A flick of a brush or a tap of a pen raises their prices to that most desirable of places—skyhigh. No one can mess with these girls. Rating: Skyhigh.
The Salon Lady
She can tell the fiscal deficit from the physical one, salacious gossip from state secrets—all while squeezing the lemon juice on the Kerala Oysters and offering martinis all around. She loves keeping ahead of the curve and being on the ball and she manages to fulfill in good measure a Proustian nod to good conversation. Her home bustles with people—mustachioed lady ngos, bureaucrats, glamorous young things, industrialists, subversives of many sexes. Her table, like the conversation, bristles with Interesting Things to Eat. She gives, therefore she gets and when she departs, like all wise salonistas, for a long trip, her groupies can’t wait for her to return. Rating: A, and holding the pattern.
The Dehati Politician
She’s the Lady Bracknell of the Boonies—complete with rexine handbag, commanding presence and a voice that can shatter the windows of the local Vidhan Sabha. Her quicksilver tongue and her hand of control emasculates men with a swipe. She don’t know much about history, don’t know much biology—but she sure knows how to run the political establishment. Coarser than hay, she holds a strange fascination for the intelligentsia—they can deny it till they’re blue in the face but they want to be her, command like her, control like her. Rating: Depends what she is—a local councillor or the Big Honchess herself.
(Nikhil Khanna is on the board of The Friday Corporation.)
