What Would You Do to Save the World? Read online

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  “WHAT WOULD YOU DO TO SAVE THE WORLD?”

  Ira Trivedi has lived in nine different cities, across four countries and three continents. She has studied Economics and International Relations at Wellesley College, and been a student of French in Aix-en-Provence in the South of France. She took part in the Femina Miss India contest in 2004.

  “What Would You Do to Save the World?”

  confessions of a could-have-been beauty queen

  IRA TRIVEDI

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  For my parents.

  Because you are everything.

  Contents

  Presenting the one and only …

  Hidden hopes

  What’s your height?

  Pre-judging—the beginning of it all

  On your marks, get set, go!

  Meeting our ‘trainers’

  Cleansing the mind, body and soul

  The Miss Indian Beauty walk

  Unrest

  Clique concept

  Public display

  Sunday blues

  Mid-life crisis

  Spirituality for success

  The power of love

  Back to school

  Disco dhamaka

  Our first taste of the diamonds

  The beauty bible

  Curiosity killed the cat

  The fate of a Miss Indian Beauty

  The making of a Miss Indian Beauty

  Truly talented

  The calm before the storm

  The final act

  Of thorns and tiaras

  Postscript

  Acknowledgements

  Welcome to the world of beauty. A world of magnificence and splendour, a world of fluff and powder. A world shaded in hues of pink and white, cast in gentleness and warmth; a world so delicate, that it might just disappear on a touch. Welcome to the world of plastic, where things are not what they appear to be, where behind the glitter and lights there is darkness, behind the diamonds there is dust, and behind the smiles there are tears. This is the world that I entered and attempted to conquer, but fell—fell hard on to the impliable bed of reality.

  I thought that the Miss Indian Beauty contest was only a beauty pageant. I was wrong. It goes much, much deeper than that. It was the hope for so many Indian girls, from the small-town girl in Bihar to the new-age Indian woman from Mumbai, the jet-setting NRI from New Zealand to the little girl who watched the pageant glued to her TV set. So many little girls held the hope, deep in their hearts, of being Miss Indian Beauty someday. This is my story, and also the story of twenty-three such girls who came together, each one of them vying for the crown.

  Each one of us had put our lives on hold to pursue our dream of being Miss Indian Beauty. In these pages I present to you the story as seen from my eyes. A naive, stubborn and spirited girl who was an outsider on the inside, who went out there to conquer the world, and though she may have lost the crown, won a whole lot more.

  Presenting the one and only …

  This wasn‘t just any old beauty pageant. This was the Miss Indian Beauty contest—the pageant to top all beauty pageants, a ticket to instant fame and success. Over the past twenty years it had established itself as an institution—an institution that could thrust an average small-town girl into the limelight, and even be a direct, overnight, first A.C. ticket into Bollywood. When I think about it now, analytically, strategically, in a completely sane fashion, after the sparkling crowning ceremony has taken place, in the aftermath of it all, I still haven’t been able to figure out what drove me to take part. I had entered a state of temporary insanity, where the little girl in me, the one who had cut out the glossy Miss Indian Beauty entry forms from the women‘s magazines that came home every month, had broken through the layers of age and wisdom, put on her mother’ s high heels and wobbled down the ramp. The Miss Indian Beauty contest had been my secret dream, the trump card that I would play to turn my monochrome life into a technicolour dream.

  Why now? Why now, when I was probably happier than I had ever been before? I had struggled through school in Indore, gone through the gruelling board exam experience, struggled with college applications and finally gotten into college. I was past the days of teenage languor, the days of infatuation, staring at the phone waiting for it to ring, the days of all-night MSN chatting and phone conversations. I was in a reputable college, doing well in my classes, and had a cute boyfriend. Things were stable.

  I think this ‘stable’ state is what scared the shit out of me. I was scared of leading an ‘ordinary life’. I envisioned the future I was heading towards. I would graduate from Wellesley College, work on Wall Street, get married to a loving doctor or lawyer, have a few kids, be happy driving my SUV and innovating in the kitchen.

  I wanted to be a star, and Miss Indian Beauty was the key.

  I had no training, no background, I had never walked down a ramp, or even been in front of the camera. Hell, I wasn’t even adept at the simple tasks of blow-drying my hair or applying eyeliner. But you see, that was the charm of the Miss Indian Beauty pageant. Much like a Bollywood movie, it idealized escapism. The history of the Miss Indian Beauty pageant is replete with tales and stories, legends in which young, simple, small-town girls are crowned with diamonds, dressed in silk, and taken through a magical journey towards success and fame.

  In my deepest, darkest fantasies, I too wanted to be part of an absurd dance sequence and thrust in tune with the music. I too wanted to put on glittery, racy outfits and be the star of the show. The little girl in me had wanted to pull out the ribbons in my plaited hair, kick off the dusty Bata school shoes and put on a princess dress. The big girl in me wanted to dress in Dolce and Gabbana, wear Manolos, and be the life of the party.

  I figured I had the basics. A decent face (very ordinary to some, but stunningly beautiful to others), the brains (enough to answer random questions anyway), and most importantly, the height (a très important quality that I will explain in detail). But I never asked myself the most important question, because I figured the answer was obvious. I never once questioned myself about whether I had the capability to really do this. I never asked myself if I would actually enjoy the camera, walking down the ramp, being the crowned princess, and being bestowed a title that would be attached to my name for a lifetime. It was a dream, more of a fantasy, rather. But sometimes fantasies are enjoyed best when they remain fantasies.

  How would I describe myself? Even though I have a practiced beauty pageant answer for this question, when I try to put it down on paper, it’s tough. I would say I am struggling—struggling hard, just to be above average. It is so easy, so simple to end up ordinary. I wanted to be a cut above the rest. What I didn’t realize was, so does the rest of the world.

  Mumbai is a divided city. From Nariman Point toWorli exists the world of South Bombay, and anything further than Worli is referred to as the ‘suburbs’ and looked upon with disdain by the smug inhabitants of South Bombay. On one side of this divide lives the old money of Mumbai. In their high-rise buildings, moist with age, these people have earned their money the old-fashioned way—they’ve inherited it. On the other side live the nouveau riche, in their spanking new seaside bungalows. There is a name for this division, and that name is ‘filmi’. The suburbs are synonymous with the movie industry and the film stars. One can actually feel the difference on either side of the divide. On one side, tall grim buildings rise up as high as the eye can see, and inside these buildings, in hardwood conference rooms, lies the heart of corporate India. The gravity of the goings-on inside these buildings hangs in the air. South Bombay is enveloped in a solitary, serious calm. On the other side of the divid
e, the easy, wistful world of Bollywood and its sheer razzmatazz seeps into the rowdy streets where the beautiful people live.

  My college boyfriend Rushab was your typical South Bombay boy. Born and brought up in Breach Candy, he was sent off to Switzerland for school, and then to Boston for college, after which he returned to the homeland where he was now preparing to take over his father’s business. He was a true South Bombay boy, in that he believed that the world that he lived in was the only one that existed.

  How do you tell your boyfriend, someone who refused to even take a step past the dividing line between South Bombay and the suburbs, that you were—of all things—entering a beauty contest? Well, cocktails help, but don’t necessarily solve the problem. I had a feeling that Rushab already had an inkling of my Miss Indian Beauty aspirations. He knew that taking part in the Miss Indian Beauty pageant was a fantasy that I meant to pursue someday, and that I might possibly be crazy enough to even go through with it. Little did he realize that this day was approaching so quickly.

  That night is vividly clear in my mind. I remember us lounging at the Opium Den, a bar at the Oberoi, sipping on substandard apple martinis, when I hesitantly broke the news to him.‘Rushab, baby, I have something important to tell you.’ His face immediately became serious on hearing my tone of voice. ‘What’ s up?’

  ‘Listen, darling … I’m on the verge of doing something big … I’m going to enter the Miss Indian Beauty contest!’ I remember the look of growing horror on his face as I proceeded to tell him the details. ‘Holy shit, Riya!’

  He was pissed. He never called me by my name, it was always ‘honey’, ‘pookie’ or ‘baby’. ‘Listen Riya, girls like you, khandani girls like you, girls from well-respected homes and families, girls who go to good schools and have done real things—they just don’t do this type of thing!’ This hit hard at the lump of inhibition that lay inside me, and in a spate of fury I spat out, ‘Rushab, you don’t know anything. Isn’t it ironic that all the girls who win this contest end up eventually marrying the men who come from these so-called khandani families? Things have changed, babe. Don’t be a dork.’ I spewed out a list of Miss Indian Beauties who had charmed and married men from immensely wealthy, typically khandani families.

  Rushab didn’t say anything more to me. He knew that my stubborn side had decided to go through with this, and that there was no stopping me. Also, I knew that underneath that frozen mask of horror lay curiosity, and just a teensy-weensy bit of excitement. His girlfriend was going to be on TV!

  That night as I lay in bed, unable to sleep, I realized that he had a point. What kind of girl typically runs for a beauty pageant? Someone who did not have too much to lose, but a whole lot to win. These contests were for girls for whom the crown would create a life, and who in return would dedicate their lives to the crown. Was this really what I wanted? Was I ready to be classified as a Miss Indian Beauty girl? Rushab’s point, like a razor-sharp knife, would prick at me at regular intervals throughout the course of the pageant.

  Breaking the news to Rushab was a mere test run. The parents would be much tougher to tackle. Tonight was the night. I took a deep breath and went down to the dinner table, where my mother and father sat waiting for me. My special meal of soup and non-fried subzi had been set at the table. I sat down and began, ‘Daddy and Mom, I have something to tell you guys.’

  Between bites of aloo-gobi, my mom nodded her head. I wasn’t sure if this was the right time—she looked somewhat distracted by the dal, which was a strange colour tonight. Dad looked deeply engrossed in his meal. I took a deep breath and began.

  ‘Dad, you know that I have always wanted to run for the Miss Indian Beauty pageant.’ There was silence.‘Well, I think I am ready to do it.’ Mom looked up from the dal, and my father spilled his soup. They seemed alarmed, though thankfully not completely shocked. My mom kept silent and just looked at my dad. This was standard practice when something of importance was being discussed. I was relieved to see the she didn’t look angry, maybe even a tad bit excited. My father had a habit of rubbing this one spot on his head when he was doing some heavy thinking. He rubbed it at length until he finally responded, ‘Achaa … what about college then?’ ‘Well,’ I said, trying to appear nonchalant. ‘I think I am going to take a semester off … it’s not a big deal—in fact, our dean encourages it.’ ‘I see,’ said my father as he continued to rub the balding spot. ‘Chalo … God’s grace … ,’ said my mom. She brought God into everything. ‘So, are you prepared for it, wardrobe and all?’ That was a statement of approval. ‘You know, Premlata aunty has started making some really niceWestern stuff.’ I interrupted my mom. ‘Hm,’ ‘I said. I didn’t want to encourage her on this.

  And so the secret was revealed to my parents. It’s not that they were wholly opposed to the idea of me taking part in a beauty pageant. I mean, it was going against the very Brahmin academic tradition of the family, but at the same time it was a little exciting too. But I could tell that it was scary for them that their daughter was about to enter an alien world. What would happen if I won the coveted title? Would it mar my prospects of finding a ‘good’ husband? As I approached a ‘marriageable age’, they were extra-sensitive to the potential stigma attached to the title of a beauty queen.

  I talked to my parents late into the night. Why did I want to win this crown? Since Bollywood was definitely not the path that I wanted to follow, where would this title lead me? I really had no concrete idea of what I would do with the title. Hell, if anything, it would look pretty damn cool on a resume. I just knew that it would give me a golden halo. It would elevate me above the ordinary, and at this point what scared me most was being just another face in the crowd.

  Hidden hopes

  I decided to pursue my Miss Indian Beauty hopes actively, in an attempt to transform my fantasy into reality. For the next six months, my decision was an invisible force that kept me going. I remained in the closet about my ambition. I could not bear the idea of telling people that I was in the running for, of all things, a beauty pageant. I was afraid people would think that I was pretentious, pompous and arrogant. I mean really—running for a beauty pageant wasn’t really the most reputable thing to do. I never, ever wanted people to think of me as Miss Indian Beauty wannabe, so I kept my aspirations under complete wraps. I continued to lead my ordinary life, and spent the days conjuring up dreams cast in the world of glamour, losing myself on many an occasion in the warmth and fullness of these hollow yet glittery thoughts. This same desire gave me the strength to go on a hardcore diet, and I soon lost all those kilos I had gained from late-night studying and junk food sessions in college. Through the exercise of great self-control, I am proud to say that I lost a total of six kilos in three months, to reach an all-time low of fifty-two kilograms (not bad when you are 5′ 9″).

  The months went by, and I kept my secret to myself. I eagerly awaited the day I would carefully cut the entry form along the dotted lines, filling it out in bold, black ink. I would enclose it in a manila envelope, spray a dash of perfume to ensure a pleasant evaluation, and kiss the package adieu, in hopes of a diamond crown.

  The application required photographs to be submitted along with the entry form. That too not just ordinary photographs, but ‘portfolio photos’. I was in Bhopal, Madhya Pradesh, where my father had been posted for the last two years. There is something to be said about the drowsy atmosphere that exists in Bhopal, and I was pleased to be back home after a rather strenuous semester, sipping chai, basking in my dream world of diamonds, imagining my moment of victory. Now that the time had come to take the first tangible step towards my goal, I was nervous and, to a certain point, hesitant to go through with this. I would have to make a trip to hectic, crazy Mumbai, dish out Rs 20,000, and undergo the process of a portfolio shoot. I’d never been through the experience, but I guessed that it could be quite excruciating—I felt uncomfortable enough posing for a passport photograph.

  But I had to get a portfolio together, and in
a rather nervous attempt to get it done, I contacted our family photographer, Mr Agni, the owner of a small-time Kodak photo studio in Indore to take on the job. I had never met Mr Agni before, but knew that he loved to send his daughter‘s sindhi cooking home to us. In the array of sindhi curries, subzis and chutneys that came our way there was always the special treat of sindhi halwa, floating in a generous pool of ghee replete with dry fruits that he would send especially for me. I would praise his daughter’s cooking so profusely each time the halwa came my way that he had developed a special liking for my glorific ways, and was thrilled when he was assigned this task. Not surprisingly, he assumed that the intention of this photo shoot was matrimony, and immediately sent across some more halwa for me. Definitely not the most conducive thing for a beauty-queen diet.

  It was a four-hour drive to Indore, and I took with me five outfits that I thought looked quite nice. I found a local beautician, Juhi (who liked to be called ‘Jewels’), for makeup and hair. When I told her that I was getting on ways to a photo shoot, she immediately broke into marriage talk, giving me the lowdown on the best jewellers and hennawalis in town. Apparently this was standard procedure. Throughout the course of the session, I emphasized that I wanted liaht make-up. I suspected Jewels could have a tendency to go a bit crazy with the blues and the pinks, trying to recreate the ‘glam-doll’ make-up ads that she saw in the glossy magazines that came to her salon. Little did she realize that the pinks and blues went rather well with blonde hair and fair skin. The effect which was created when this look was juxtaposed on the brown of the Indian skin could be quite horrific.

  Along with my sister Anjali and my best friend Shreeya, I went to the ‘location‘of the shoot, ‘photo shoot’ as Mr Agni liked to call it, where we were greeted by Mr Agni himself. He was a chubby, dark man with a shining head. His eyes were not to be seen behind thick, black-framed glasses. His mouth was stained a deep red from years of pan-chewing. Now that I have seen a fair share of photo studios, I can safely say that Mr Agni’s place would not quite qualify as a bonafide studio. The ‘studio’ was more of a small, dingy room decorated with every imaginable sort of photograph pasted on the wall—photographs of smiling babies, of shy newly married couples, and of ‘glam-doll’ brides-to-be (make-up courtesy Jewels). In the centre of the room were a few bright lights and black umbrellas, and a stool, sitting solitary upon a white sheet. I was slightly troubled by all of this, particularly the stool. I associated the stool with a pole, and I pictured myself propped on this wooden stool in all sorts of troubling positions.