Of Airport Looks And Entourage: Why I Feel For Bollywood Divas

I feel for Bollywood diva types, I really do. God Promise. The things they have to do to maintain their ranking in the pecking order, is not funny.

Imagine having to wake up at the crack of dawn and before you have your cuppa there is an army of people jostling you around. To begin with, your stylist won’t take no for an answer when you say you don’t want to get into that totally shapeless pyjama-like thing that she has procured, along with a matching top, which seems to have a couple of buttons missing.

Plus, somebody seems to have gone at it wildly with a scissor so that it now hangs loosely above your waist. You remember wearing those things to bed as a child; and if the top was short, it was only because ">mom had miscalculated the amount of fabric needed for you and the sister and therefore, decided to make shorter tops. “Nobody is going to see you both in bed anyways,” she said, when you complained.

“Well, now these are called co-ord sets and everybody who is anybody is wearing them,” sniffs your stylist. “If you don’t like them, I can give them to my other client, so -n-so,” she mutters. You quickly grab the set and pull it over you because so-n-so is the darling of Bollywood just now with a new baby and you are damned if you will allow her to be a fashionista over you. It is only 4 am and you are freezing in your co-ord set because the damn thing can hold another 2 of you but what the hell, you need to be the Bollywood fashionista and whatever it entails, so be it!

Why I Feel for Bollywood Divas

Your hairstylist, meanwhile, is backcombing and teasing it so that you fear the scalp is going to be yanked right off your head. “I already have a bald patch from all the pulling,” you whimper but he is in no mood to listen. “This will give you the perfect, just-out-of-bed look, darling,” he says. Which reminds you of the time you were a teenager and once entered the drawing room at around 10 am, in your pyjamas, hair uncombed and your mother had a visitor and she almost dropped her teacup in shock.

Of course, there was hell to pay later: no going out for an entire week and a lecture on how one never, never, stepped out of the bedroom in your night clothes, with bedraggled hair. No danger of that these days though, because your stylist makes you sleep with hair in a silk turban so that your tresses remain silken.

And if you thought that is the end of the story, naah! The couturier who supplied the posh pyjamas, err, the co-ord, has insisted that a pair of boots is perfect for the outfit.

“But it is so hot outside and I have a two-hour flight, I can’t possibly sit with boots on,” you whimper, only to have the stylist blast you with a stone-cold gaze. “This is show-biz, baby,” she smiles, sipping on a hot cup of tea. By now you are hating on all the male colleagues including the spouse who don’t have to worry about "Airport Looks”. Your Significant Other makes it to Page 3 wearing last night's PJs, a hoodie and a cap and nobody disses his fashion sense, ever.

“And what about my tea?” you whine, only to be talked down to again.

“Baby you can’t eat or drink till you get on that flight. You will bloat, and I will spend the rest of the day refuting rumours that you are expecting.” Fat chance considering your newly-minted spouse has been shooting in the other end of the country for a couple of months now, you mutter.

Your agent is, meanwhile, on the phone cajoling, begging, and entreating, all sorts of paparazzi to be at the airport when you step out of the car.

“Be there on time or I promise you, no more exclusives and tip-offs for you from their second honeymoon which is soon,” she snarls. “Just kidding you, see you soon,” she signs off.

You arrive at the airport, quickly wear your gigantic dark glares and step out and the paparazzi surround you. Hmmm, at least you are still their fav and they are here to greet you, even though they are the worst pestilence, you smirk.

“Ma’am, So- n- So has been signed last night by your mentor for possibly the biggest movie to be made in recent times. What do you have to say about that?”.

“That is wonderful news, I am sure she will do a great job. I am glad he chose her because she will do justice to the role,” you say, flashing your pearly whites.

“Shit, I really should have invited him for our post-wedding party at home, along with his arm candy girl-friend. He is obviously mad. Must remember to make it up to them somehow,” you make a mental note to yourself.

But for now, it is time to suffer those idiots who want selfies with you at 4am, can you beat it? Stomach in, chest out, right side profile to the camera. Lights, camera, action.

The show must go on.

I tell you, I really feel for Bollywood divas.

Sudha Menon is the author of 6 books including Feisty At Fifty, her adventures as a woman of fifty-plus. Views expressed by the author are their own.

Suggested Reading: Sudha Menon’s Feisty At Fifty Shows That Life Indeed Begins At Fifty