Years ago, when Daler Mehdi was this huge star, I approached him for a charity event to raise funds for an animal hospital. He agreed on one condition. He wanted a lal batti with a siren atop his car and was under the mistaken notion that I, as an MP, could get him one. I told him I couldn't. That was the last time we met. But you can't blame poor Daler. I know industrialists who have demanded black cat security at whatever the cost. I have lost friends who were annoyed because I could not get them an entry pass to the VIP lounge in airports, reserved for politicians, judges and top bureaucrats. There were others who wanted Padma Shris and Padma Bhushans, ready to pay whatever it takes for the honour, and some who simply didn't want to be frisked at the airport. No, not because they want to carry guns, cigarette lighters, mango chutneys or LPG gas cylinders which are banned on flights but simply because they thought it would lend them power and prestige to walk through the security gate unchecked.
Status symbols keep changing. In the sixties, all you needed was a house, an Ambassador car, a couple of sons studying medicine or engineering and, voila, you were seen as rich and powerful. Things changed in the seventies. The car had to be imported. The house became a flat on Malabar Hill. The sons remained a prestige symbol but they now had to be in Ivy League. If you were lucky, you could even become a consul of some little known Latin American country that didn't want to go through the cost of flying in their own people. So you signed off visas and partied on the national days of other countries. Owning race horses was another kick. The underworld was too busy fighting over the spoils of our over-regulated economy where most things were either banned or rationed. So they had no time to extort anyone. Armed guards therefore hadn't come into fashion. They came later when the bhais and their sponsored netas entered public life. They needed protection, no, not from anonymous assassins but from their own past associates.
In the eighties, Rajiv brought in his own symbolism. You were not somebody of any stature till you flaunted a fat, black Mont Blanc pen in your pocket. That was also the time when the safari suit came in with young Congressmen keeping a safe distance from khadi and the wrong Gandhi. They flaunted instead the Rolex gold watch and the Mont Blanc as their badge of honour. This, and the number of friendly journalists they had, defined their status as politicians in an era when the media was redefined post the Emergency.
All this has now changed. The Rolex has yielded way to trendier brands. Since the purpose of a watch is no longer to read the time (you can do that easily on your cell phone) most people wear them as a fashion accessory. The Swiss movement is no longer important. Brand is. So is the bling quotient. The Mont Blanc too is no longer the only status wielding writing instrument. The Vaio and the Blackberry have hijacked its place because you not only write on them but you can also send off what you write through instant messaging services that work in real time. I saw an MP flaunting a Vertu the other day, a glittering, diamond encrusted phone with valet on call. For others, the iPhone is the new toy. The favourite car of the stars, the Impala is now history like Elvis' pink Cadillac. So you have the Maybach or the S Class as your preferred wheels and if you want to flaunt your machismo, you ride a Hayabusa.
New status symbols are yachts, designer cruises, weekend breaks to shop on Rodeo Drive. You recognise a businessman's squeeze by her LV and her Jimmy Choo while the MP flaunts his pet movie star like a chihuahua. Old Lutyen bungalows are beginning to look like movie sets the ostentation, the garishness, the worthless art and artefacts dying to be noticed. All of this rubbish is protected by fancy electronic gadgetry and a gaggle of filmi extras masquerading as black.
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