I venture into today’s topic with trepidation. A columnist always yearns to be taken seriously, his/her each word considered by readers as significant as those emanating from some divine Oracle, weighty and immutable. By that yardstick, I must examine what is going wrong in neighbouring Pakistan, what the rupee devaluation implies, why Varun Gandhi put his foot in his mouth. I should be dwelling with righteous rage as to why tigers are vanishing from Sariska, the niceties of the Genome Project or if Vijay Malllya has the moral right to get back the Mahatma’s artefacts. A columnist who dwells on lightweight issues is sidetracked and dismissed as irrelevant. But today, I have summoned the courage to commit literary harakiri because the cause I believe in is important at many levels, in ways we do not fully comprehand.

Let us start with the premise that this is a scenario, a familiar domestic drama played out between countless couples every day all over the world. They have been invited to a dinner, or have tickets for a concert. The man is in the car, honking away at his horn, his lips set in a thin, hard line. The wife is still tethered to her dressing mirror, pouting her lips into a perfect O and patting tissue to absorb the extra lipstick. She appraises herself, her eyes a little narrow, her features gathered in a coquettish half-smile, trying to imagine how she looks to others. Are the eyebrows too arched? Does that blemish need a daub of concealer, does the silver eyeshadow clash with the magenta sari? She brushes her hair impatently, cunningly arranges a curl in the middle of the forehead. Ah yes, she likes what she sees. But she has to be sure. So, settling herself delicately in the car, made-up, bejewelled and perfumed to perfection, impervious to her partner’s exasperation, she sweetly turns to him. “How do I look?” Oh baby, if there’s a loaded question, this is it. But the man does not know this. Sometimes he shrugs. Sometimes he says: “Yeah, fine.” If he is in a generous mood, he’ll mumble, “You always look ok,” At this point, the temperature in the car drops.

Okay? What’s this schmaltz about looking okay? She did not spend that much time and effort to look okay. She wanted to look stunning, gorgeous, the kind that men looked at and crashed into the rear bumper of the car ahead. The husband could be forgiven for saying “Okay” to a carelessly slapped up cheese sandwich, but not for this. She ignores him the rest of the evening, refuses to introduce him to anyone at the party. Depending on her sense of outrage, she may even be driven to flirt with the man in the tight, shiny suit, just to get even.

A man may know how to play the stock market, build business empires, transplant hearts, design skyscrapers, even be a rocket scientist. But, if he doesn’t know how to compliment his wife on her looks, he is zilch. This simple art, if mastered well, may even save him from divorce suits and alimony. Much of the unhappiness in this world grows from this shortcoming. Powerful men, clueless, bewildered, frustrated about why their wives are mad at them, take all sorts of rash decisions that affect the lives of others. He may lock up his opponents in prison, clamp civil liberties, order economic blockades on rival countries. He may sell nuclear secrets, or perform the wrong operation on a patient, or take million dollar bribes. Anything is possible. All for a compliment, or the inability to give one.

The crux of the matter is that men consider the art of a woman applying make-up or shringaar as frivolous. But to a woman, it is an act sacred to her sense of self, a repeated celebration of her unique identity, the re-affirmation of herself as an aesthtic being, in tune with the timeless and universal quest for beauty and perfection. A woman is not just a woman applying foundation and eyeliner on her face. She is both the artist and the canvas, the sculptor and the statue, the composer and the symphony. Through her judgement, her unerring eye, steady hand and a few beauty aids, she transforms herself from a common woman to someone desirable, mysterious, unattainable, a bearer of promises for the one who is man enough to win her heart. But that comes later. Her act of makeup by itself is a deeply sensuous and fulfilling activity, one that does not require the participation of another person. In that way, too, she is empowered. The Taliban knew this. Or how does it explain why they could pulled out painted nails.

Now stop for a moment and think of the word makeup. If you cease to see it as a noun, you begin to see it as a verb. This very feminine ritual of beautifying the self makes up for all that the fair sex has to endure – the curbing of her freedom from an early age, the unspeakable monthly curse, her destiny to leave her childhood home. And then the most brutal experience of all-childbirth, when you scream like some dumb animal as waves of pain wash over your body, as you lie there in the birthing cot, all messy and vulnerable, knowing you have to survive, that your baby must thrust its way out of you in one final burst of agony. You hate the lack of control that comes with the territory. You hate the wetness, the blood, the painful heaviness of breasts swollen with milk. You resent the rawness of it all. And when you return to the mirror and touch up your cheeks, your eyes, your hair, it is your way of saying This is me, the beautiful, eternal me.

For a woman, tragedy is not wars, famines, earthquakes and pestilence. Tragedy, in all its poignant connotations, is being passed over without a second glance. Tragedy is when you can’t turn a single head. That is why perhaps women fear ageing more than men. Men grow old, satisfied that their achievements are enough to put a stamp on them. But a woman may be a celebrated author, a powerful bureaucrat or a social crusader, but still be judged by the way she looks. A woman’s battle with age is heart breaking in its desperation and quiet intensity. She gathers an arsenal of age-defying creams, bust-firming oils with all the sincerety and single-minded purpose of a general preparing for battle. Every morning, she studies the new little lines and wrinkles that must be smoothened out and banished. Every strand of hair is carefully dyed, the spectacles artfully removed in the presence of those whose compliments she anticipates. Sometimes, in her haste to took younger than she is, she is too over the top with the lipstick or the compact and the effort shows. If she is comfortable in her skin, has oodles of confidence, and is loved by a gallant spouse or lover, she will let it all hang out - a grey hair there, crow’s feet there, laughing good naturedly at her new, older self. A woman needs humour to tide over this thorny period, when her beauty droops and fades like a rose. She must continue to beautify herself because it is so central to who she is, the essence of what she means. Years ago, actress Devika Rani was told by her husband, the Russian artist Svetoslav Roerich. “When you die, make sure you have make up on. Never let the media catch you without it.” He did not say this because she was old and ugly. That is not the point. He knew the world remembered her as this gorgeous, alluring star who did the first kiss in Indian celluloid history. He wanted her to carry the vestiges of what she had been and loved her enough to offer this suggestion. Here, at least, was a man who valued makeup for what it is. As for you gentlemen, let’s say this is a friendly wake-up call.

– indrani_raimedhi@reddiffmail.com

website: www.iraimedhi.com

Indrani Raimedhi