Private lives in public places

I've always been a general fan of Shashi Tharoor. I don't know if he was a very good Minister of State for External Affairs, because, let's face it, nobody knows what the Minister of State for External Affairs actually does, or should be doing; the most clueless being, perhaps, the Ministry itself. It appeared he was trying to take on the entrepreneurial burden and do the right things, liaising with an African consortium here, wearing overcoats and shaking hands with Belgians there, dining with Saudis in, well, Saudi Arabia. But clearly, that's not appropriate because it got him allegations of hotel misuse, Twitter misuse and job loss.u00a0

Whatever his report card, (and you'll notice I have avoided the whole IPL fiasco), a certain bracket of urban India loves him for that accent, part Oxford, part world traveller, all Indian elite. I will add here that the women have independent reasons, the least of which is not the foppish schoolboy haircut that adds a certain Hugh Grant coolness which, in the words of the great Hugh himself, involves, "paying salons large sums to look disheveled and well-read".

This man was unfortunately the subject of much media scrutiny for his private life. His great crime -- those three words that are a comprehensive no-no in our society of subterfuge -- falling in love.

A similar situation unfolded some years ago in another society well-known for romance both, scandalous and pure -- France. No black and white French film in the history of cinema has ended promoting monogamy. In fact, quite the opposite is widely encouraged. Like the line from a Goddard film where a typical French gentleman is asked, "Are you happily married, sir?" "I certainly am. You can ask my mistress". There's of course, the great legend from Francois Mitterrand's funeral where, unspoken, a tussle ensued between his legal wife and both his mistresses, on who got to stand closest to his body (the second mistress won. She was the youngest, and naturally, most photogenic). Earlier, when an American President was accused of infidelity with an intern, the French could not understand what all the hype was about. "In my country, we don't call this cheating, we call this life," a Parisian with a thin moustache (naturally) explained.

In the middle of this nation, where love means secret caf ufffd meetings, hidden phone chats and planned hotel trysts with a woman half your age who is definitely not your wife, showed up Nicholas Sarkozy. And he proclaimed loudly that he was in love with an extremely beautiful former model named Carla, who had a penchant for showing up on magazine covers naked, and sometimes, naked wrapped with reptiles. Also a talented musician with several recorded albums (on whose covers, she's equally unclothed), she once recorded the lyric "Raphael, that body, I'd like to eat you".u00a0

The French media thought this was the juiciest scoop ever to fall into their lap. The President of the nation deeply involved with an oft-nude, highly controversial model who could become the nation's first lady -- they could go to town with this. Then, they sat back and said, wait a minute, they are both divorced, it's consensual, where does this fit into our national ethic of cheating and mistresses and secrets and scandal?

It didn't. No one was hiding anything. Therefore, there was nothing the media could reveal. They were stumped. Sarkozy, instead of being seen slyly slipping out of his lover's flat early some morning, vacationed with her in Egypt, took her as a date to state dinners, in front of the world press. This was check-mate -- neither could they write about how the leader of the country was goofing off canoodling (he mixed business with pleasure, everyone could see), nor could they write about Sarkozy's double life because there was not one. In one love affair, a President has destroyed the essence of a nation.

About a year ago, a similar thing happened with Mr Tharoor. The media hounded him saying he had done favours for his lover, that he had a lover, was he wasting national resources on some secret dalliance? Etc. I assume once he gracefully resigned and the media had its climax and moved on to the next triviality, Mr Tharoor took a page from the Sarkozy playbook and instead of being dictated by the press, took the game to them. He flaunted his romance, as well he should, between two intelligent adults, not to apologise or redeem, but to ask, I'm leading my private life in public proudly. Now, what's your angle?

There he was -- being wed in public gaze, on a swing in Kerala -- the lovers feeding each other, cheekily pointing out the road sign for Pushkar. And those that hounded him, naturally, and foolishly, lapped it up, the pictures and images gracing our front pages and TV news, not realising that the joke is on them. Mr Tharoor was having the last laugh.

Anuvab Pal is a Mumbai-based playwright and screenwriter. His plays in Mumbai include Chaos Theory and screenplays for Loins of Punjab Presents (co-written) and The President is Coming. He is currently working on a book on the Bollywood film Disco Dancer for Harper Collins, out later this year.u00a0Reach him at https://www.anuvabpal.com/

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