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The ageing entitlement of Narendra Kumar Ahmed

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Gayatri Jayaraman
Gayatri JayaramanMar 06, 2015 | 18:05

The ageing entitlement of Narendra Kumar Ahmed

I had an 11.30am appointment with Narendra Kumar Ahmed yesterday morning. The appointment was made a week in advance. It was confirmed the night before. I left home at 9.30am so as not to be caught in peak hour traffic. And yet, when I arrived, finding myself climbing the stairs to his brand new Linking Road store at 11.27am sharp, I found his store assistants sweeping around my feet. I lingered for a few minutes waiting to be asked to be seated, and then decided to look at the clothes instead. The three racks of the women’s prêt line took me around five minutes. Signature sharp cuts, a few sleek lines, strong beiges, some chunky typically Indianised embroidery and embellishments, I spotted one to two Bal-like embroidered jackets in the menswear section that seemed very unNari-like, but largely a mish mash of a line. I asked for cold water and didn’t get it, twice, called the publicist twice, and then, by 11.57am, after being told that he was partying with famous friends the night before and therefore, but of course, was late, when it was starting to dawn that “arriving in 15 minutes” might actually be a euphemism for he was being woken up, the assistant tried to assuage me by asking if India TV had a channel. That’s when it struck me that they neither knew, nor cared, which publication was showing up, and this farce of an appointment was part of a larger publicity churn for the designer. I politely asked if I should come back later, and when it was met with an enthusiastic “will you do a telephonic?” I rolled my eyes (I thought I had earned it by then) and started my descent down the stairs. 



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I was disappointed. At India Today we don’t do much fashion. I make it a point not to visit the shows or openings of designers we won’t be covering. But I was keen on Nari. One of his last powerful shows, Protest, in 2006, still lingered as a defining symbol of what socio-political statements he was capable of. Like a Marc Jacobs, his lines didn’t seem to emerge out of a churn of needing to be on the newest starlet, but by a thinking and socially relevant man or woman. When Vidya Balan went through her existential wardrobe crisis, it was to Nari she turned for a Filmfare shoot, and it was one of the few “makeovers” for her in western wear that hit the spot. His androgynous lines have a way of framing the Indian physique in ways that are simple and unfussy, achieving a minimalism few amongst his peers are capable of. And he believes that fashion should be democratic and shouldn’t be priced out of its wits. I was hoping to find out where he stood on all of these subjects, and was sorry to be denied a chance.

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Which brings me to my point: Why is it so very hard for the Indian film industry and anyone allied with it to make and keep appointments? As I left the store, I couldn’t help but compare it with a meeting with Rakesh Maria that took place last year, shortly after the commissioner of police had taken charge. He had granted me a 2pm appointment. I was let in on the dot, only to find 250 people in his waiting room. He gave me exactly all of two minutes, spoke like an insurance agent announcing his disclaimer to give me his answer, and had me ushered me out so the others waiting in line could be helped on the dot of their appointments too. As a journalist who is fortunately not limited to a single field, I find the pattern repeating every time. You can take an appointment with the greatest artists - SH Raza, 93, was brought down ailing on the stroke of 11am after I flew from Mumbai by a morning flight to meet him, Krishen Khanna, 90, was sitting by his phone at 10am the day returning from hospital to put a pacemaker in, and I have never met people in a corporate or the arts – Anand Mahindra, Gautam Singhania, Tina Ambani, Meenal Bajaj, Atul Dodiya, Sanjna Kapoor – (even the artists, in case you wanted to come up with that excuse of being unpunctual being part of the process), who wasn’t religious about their punctuality, schedule, value of time. Even in government babudom, the "being made to wait" and how long, is measured and deliberate, and symbolic. Of course, that is not to say people are not late. People are late sometimes; because a prior appointment was delayed, because they got stuck in traffic, because their child was not well... but I have never come across people not showing up because they couldn’t care less and couldn’t be bothered to reschedule or inform you, anywhere except anything allied with bollywood. At the start of the year, a member of YRF kept me waiting for three hours for a meeting that she neither showed up for, nor has apologised for since. It is meant to be par for the course I assume.

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Thing is, we all tell ourselves this is how the industry works, count our blessings that we no longer have to wait for Akshay Kumar for four hours until 2am for an interview, and shrug it off. Except it is a level of entitlement that does not exist anywhere else in the world. You can mail Padmalakshmi’s agent, or Seinfeld’s, or the Guggenheim or the Smithsonian, and you will receive a response promptly about whether an interview can be set up, when, the telephone number to call and the time. Someone will be at the other end of that interview, as prepped as you will be, for it. If the response returns as “no, the interview will not be possible at this time” or “Sir Ben Kingsley does not want to give a quote at this moment” that is typically the end of it. It will not be possible to weasel a quote out of them on any pretext. What is possible is, and what isn’t, isn’t. There is a straightforwardness to communications that allows you to take the flow of information for granted. In most of those cases, you are, as a journalist, free to focus on the questions that will be asked, rather than the triumph of achieving an encounter at all. The act of inveigling, something I am quite loathe to achieve expertise in, does not become the triumph of my journalism. The art of my inquiry does. The idea that association to stardom is a valid excuse for a lack of professionalism is a strange argument to make. By all means, be a recluse, shun the press, make your own statements through social media, take more subversive paths to communicate if you mean to; my grouse is with those who would wield a “do you know whom I partied with” measure for their professionalism.

There are very few stars today changing the rules. Deepika Padukone is one of them. From the day she began to do promotions for Om Shanti Om, she picked up her own phone and has returned missed calls. She is prompt, regulated, unstarry, and particular. Kalki Koechlin is another. I do not know Ranveer Singh well enough to comment on whether he achieves his self professed claim of changing the rules, but I hope he does. Ranbir Kapoor is one of the most well articulated, well behaved respondees one could hope to have. And when Mr Bachchan Sr says you’ll have the email by the end of day, it will come at 11.59pm or by God the day has not ended.

The glamour and fashion writing industries in India are today so dependent on their willingness to put aside a basic professionalism for an encounter, that very few can afford critical thinking. You must choose the position of being the outcaste or the unimpeachable deep throat. Both are extreme positions. Much of the inability to look at work critically in both these spheres – I would go so far as to include Indian publishing and the lack of criticism of much of what is mediocre in it, in this – comes from the constant needing to pick one of these positions.

In any industry, an artist who does not take himself seriously enough to keep the appointments he makes to explain his work, is riding on image to see him through. One day, that’s just not going to be enough.

Last updated: March 06, 2015 | 18:05
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