A kiss is still a kiss

Salil Tripathi attacks the lawyers and judges from 'Indian hick towns' who criticise Shilpa Shetty b

The millennium-old Sanskrit treatise about the art of love, Kama Sutra, describes many different ways in which a lover can kiss his beloved, including the bent kiss, the turned kiss, the straight kiss, and the clasping kiss. (The rest are best not named when impressionable children are around).

The Kama Sutra makes no mention of the sweeping tango motion, with which Richard Gere lunged at a surprised but clearly happy Shilpa Shetty, planting several kisses on her cheeks at an HIV-AIDS awareness rally in New Delhi late last month. While the audience cheered and whistled, clearly enjoying the performance, others weren't amused.

One curmudgeonly lawyer in Jaipur stomped off to a local court, arguing he was offended by that obscene act in public. Never mind the 3.5 million cases clogging the Indian court system - including nearly 500,000 pending over a decade - and never mind cases of forced marriage of children which took place in his state that very month; a local judge set a court date. He called the kiss "sexual and erotic"
and blamed Shetty for not doing anything to resist Gere.

Shetty acted like an innocent schoolgirl caught by her headmaster, saying that it was Gere who had kissed, but she hadn't kiss back; Gere too apologized after initially refusing to do so. She added, for good measure, that what Gere did was as per "his culture, not ours," and that they were merely re-enacting a scene from Gere's film, "Shall We Dance?"

Shall we stop this humbug first? Why this hand-wringing? After all, kissing is as much part of Indian culture as are the temples of Konarak and Khajuraho, where sculptures of kissing couples are probably the least erotic images on display. In Rajasthan alone the offended lawyer will find miniature paintings that reveal erotic love far more explicitly.

But why go that far in the past? In almost every Bollywood film, an actress bursting out of her skimpy, body-hugging costume cavorts in rain or shine, thrusting her torso and twisting her hips, leaving nothing to imagination, as she coils herself around around a male heartthrob. Now that kissing is not a taboo in Indian films, these days their lips – and not two roses – meet, accompanied by thunder and lightning.

The spoilsports aren't far behind: another lawyer, this time in Muzaffarpur, has sued stars Aishwarya Rai and Hrithik Roshan for kissing in a film called "Dhoom – 2". Another judge, seeking his 15 minutes of fame, has set a date later this month for the case to be heard. More cases are planned against Gere and Shetty.

Every ten years India goes through this paroxysm-like ritual, when an Indian actress kisses a foreign celebrity – or is kissed by one, as in Shetty's case – and the nation's honour is presumably besmirched. In 1980, Padmini Kolhapure, then an aspiring Bollywood star, couldn't resist Prince Charles and planted a kiss on his cheek, when he visited a studio where a blockbuster was being filmed. In 1993, Shabana Azmi, an actress and activist in the Vanessa Redgrave mold, kissed Nelson Mandela on his cheek. There was immediate criticism; this time Muslim leaders too joined in.

The clash between a rapidly urbanizing, modern India and the tradition-bound, insecure smaller town resurfaces periodically, and in a nation with a billion people, as the late author Nirad Chaudhuri observed, even exceptions run into millions.

Take a closer look at the curmudgeonly towns, and the picture becomes clearer: Muzaffarpur and Jaipur are relatively small towns in northern India, unable to adjust to rapid change. Satellite television is invading homes there, showing how men and women behave elsewhere in their own country. The towns too are expanding, and in that churning, tradition-minded men want to assert their authority and control their women. They are worried how their daughters would behave when out of sight, and they are horrified seeing Indian women in saris kissing foreign men in public. It must be stopped.

At heart, then, this reflects the deep-rooted misogyny. In 2005, Khushboo, another Indian actress, was criticized after she said that nothing is wrong with pre-marital sex provided it is safe, consensual and between adults, and no educated man should make virginity an issue. Tennis ace Sania Mirza appeared to have supported those remarks, but later backtracked. She didn't have a choice; the 20-year-old was already in hot water because a few Muslim leaders wanted to pass a fatwa against her for she played tennis wearing miniskirts. Mirza and Khushboo, like Azmi, are Muslims; that being Muslim women they are able to lead liberated lives is actually a triumph of Indian secularism.

The denial of sexuality – as something women can flaunt, as a natural act they enjoy – is the core of the complaint of the lawyers and judges from Indian hick towns. They will ignore horrendous abuses like rape, trafficking, dowry deaths, and female foeticide and female infanticide around them. But the moment an adult woman expresses her sexuality, she must be forced to repent. The backlash against Gere and Shetty has far less to do with maintaining Indian traditions and all to do with preserving male dominance.

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An English hero for the ages: Ian Botham at 60

Botham blends his sportsmanship and deep-seated passion for cricket with a lust for life.

Begging W H Auden’s pardon, it is possible both to honour and to value the vertical man, and in the case of Ian Botham, who turned 60 on 24 November, it is our bounden duty. No sportsman has given Britons so much to enjoy in the past half-century and no sportsman is loved more. Two decades after he retired from first-class cricket, his reputation as one of life’s champions remains unassailable.

No mere cricketer is he, either. Botham is a philanthropist, having raised more than £12m for various charities, notably Leukaemia and Lymphoma Research. In December, 30 years after his first walk from John o’Groats to Land’s End, he will set off again, in South Africa, where England are on tour. And he really does walk, too, not amble. As somebody who accompanied him on one of his dozen walks said: “You can’t keep up with him. The man is a phenomenon.”

Of all postwar sportsmen, only Bobby Charlton and, at a pinch, Henry Cooper come close to matching Botham’s enduring popularity. But Charlton, a shy man who was scarred by the Munich plane crash of 1958 (and may never have recovered from its emotional effects), has never comfortably occupied a public stage; and Cooper, being a boxer, had a solitary role. Botham, by contrast, spoke for England. Whenever he picked up his bat, or had a ball in his hand, he left spectators in no doubt.

Others have also spoken for England. Bobby Moore and Martin Johnson, captains respectively of England’s World Cup-winning football and rugby teams, were great players but did not reach out to people as naturally as Botham. Nick Faldo, Lester Piggott, Sebastian Coe and, to bring us up to date, Lewis Hamilton have beaten the best in the world, but they lacked those qualities that Botham displayed so freely. That is not to mark them down. They were, and are, champions. But Botham was born under a different star.

It was John Arlott, the great cricket commentator, who first spotted his uniqueness. Covering a match at Taunton in 1974, he asked the young colt to carry his bags up the rickety staircase to the press box, where Arlott, wearing his oenophile’s hat, pulled out a bottle of red wine and invited Botham to drink. Forty years later Botham is a discriminating wine drinker – and maker. Along with his friend and fellow England great Bob Willis, and their Australian wine­making pal Geoff Merrill, he has put his name to a notable Shiraz, “BMW”.

Arlott, with his nose for talent and good company, saw something in the young Botham that Brian Close, his captain at Somerset, was beginning to bring out. Later, Mike Brearley, as England captain, drew out something even more remarkable. As Rodgers and Hammerstein wrote, you’ve got to be carefully taught. And Botham, a fine team man as well as a supreme individual performer, has never withheld praise from those who enabled him to find his voice.

If sport reveals character, then cricket is the game that reveals it most clearly. In no other sport is the individual performance rooted so firmly in a team context. Every over brings a contest of skill and intelligence between batsman and bowler but only a team can win the match. “A cricketer,” as Arlott said, “is showing you something of himself all the time.”

Cricket also reveals national character more than any other sport. Football may be the most popular game in the world but cricket, and cricketers, tell us far more about England and Englishness. It is instructive, in this regard, to hear what Philippe Auclair, a French journalist and author long resident in London, has to say about Botham: “He is essentially an 18th-century Englishman.” In one! It’s not difficult to sense a kinship with Tom Jones, Fielding’s embodiment of 18th-century life, who began his journey, as readers may recall, in Somerset.

A country boy who played for Worcestershire after leaving Somerset, and who lives by choice in North Yorkshire, Botham is an old-fashioned Englishman. Although nobody has yet found him listening to the parson’s sermon, he is conservative with a small and upper-case C, a robust monarchist, handy with rod and gun, and happiest with a beaker in front of him. He represents (though he would never claim to be a representative) all those people who understand instinctively what England means, not in a narrow way, but through something that is in the blood.

Above all, he will be remembered for ever as the hero of 1981. Even now it takes some believing that Botham bowled and batted with such striking success that the Australians, who were one up after two Tests, were crushed. Some of us who were actually at Headingley for the famous third Test – thousands who claim to have been there were not – recall the odds of 500-1 on an England victory going up on the electronic scoreboard that Saturday evening.

Botham made 149 not out as England, following on, beat the Aussies by 18 runs. For three hours the country seemed to stop. In the next Test, at Edgbaston, Botham took five wickets for one run as Australia fell under his spell. Then, at Old Trafford, on a dank Saturday afternoon, he played the most memorable innings of his life and one of the greatest innings ever played by an Englishman: 118 magnificent, joyful runs. Joy: that’s the word. Botham brought joy into people’s lives.

Yet it was the final Test at the Oval, which ended in a draw, that brought from him a performance no less remarkable than those from before. He bowled 89 overs in that match, flat out, continuing to run in when others withdrew with injury. That was the team man coming to the fore. Little wonder his comrades thought the world of him.

Modest, loyal, respectful to opponents, grateful to all who have lent him a hand, and supported throughout a turbulent life by Kath, his rock of a wife, and their three children, this is a cricketing hero to rank with W G Grace, Jack Hobbs, Wally Hammond and Fred Trueman. A feature in the lives of all who saw him, and a very English hero. 

This article first appeared in the 26 November 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Terror vs the State