STRICTLY HUMOR
The gori details
by oohi ashu
Nothing like a modelling contest to remind you that beauty is only skin deep . . .
So there I was in CatManDo, working hard on a PowerPoint presentation all through Saturday afternoon, wondering what to do at night to let off some steam.
Should I call up friends and go see Mani Ratnam's movie "Yuva' at Jai Nepal Cinema with dinner at Thamel's Jatra afterwards? Or chill out with them at an airport sekuwa-ghar with beer? Or I could make some thick soup at home, and curl up with Ha Jin's book "The Bridegroom". Then again, listening to some humid jazz at one of Lazimpat's smoke-filled bars sounded good too.
Then the phone rang. My buddy Surendra Man Sthapit (aka SMS) was inviting me to the finale of 2004 Saboon Sundari Star Contest.
"For free, yaar,' SMS went on. "I've got you a pass, through my wife's employer. There's dinner afterward. Be
at Hyatt Regency at seven. I'll meet you at the lobby. And, uh, wear something nice, ok?.'
OK, sir!
The Hyatt was packed to the rafters with Kathmandu's who's who. Not the literary, poetic types -- with soulful doggy eyes. Nor the rabble-rousing political brigade, with left (or is it right?) arms up in the air. These were corporate types with Khajurao-figured wives in various stages of undress.
The multinational crowd was there in force, and so were
the media tycoons with their pretty secretaries. Elderly women - matronly types - sporting salt-and-pepper hair, were resplendent in their saris. The men were all dressed like Naya Sadak bankers. All seemed to know one other,
and in the pre-event cocktail, they all chatted with one another with effortless rib-poking banter.
The show begins.
Eighteen girls make an appearance, each wearing outrageously skimpy costumes that no sane woman would wear on the streets of Kathmandu. The models are scrawny —some look positively underfed, fit to appear on a Department of Health warning-against-malnutrition poster.
"Don't they feed these girls?" I lean over to SMS.
"Only lettuce," he answers.
What are these, then?
Goats?
The ethnography of the contestants is fascinating, and some of the visibly non-bahuni lasses have bahun surnames. What is going on here?
"When bahuns sleep around, they contribute to the melting pot of this great nation,” whispers someone next to SMS. The guy seated in front gives us a dirty look: we are ruining his concentration, with our discourse on amateur anthropology.
Well, it looks like the fair ones have an advantage in this contest. And sure enough, the dusky ethnic types -- despite all their pouts, oomph and writhingly sultry allure -- don't stand a chance.
The winner is as gori as she can be: Fair & Lovely indeed!
Feeling a bit out of place, I survey the audience: The Kathmandu elite in attendance is composed of old-line aristocrats -- largely irrelevant these days and in need of money. There are the yunnies (young, upwardly-mobile nepalis) who have amassed new money but are in the process of acquiring class by attending beauty contests as invited guests. And what could be better for both types than to cross-pollinate one other . . . to see and be seen together at events such as these?
Over in the far corner are those 60-something men who can't seem to get enough of the 18-year-olds' sashaying down the ramp, with their hips going clicketi-clack. Next to us is a nattily dressed Alfa Male who displays an enthusiasm for chatting up other people's wives while neglecting his own. The corporate also-wannabes are clicking away with their Olympus digitals just so they can ogle at the pictures with co-workers on Monday morning.
Given the state of the country (and this is 2004, folks!), I guess it is a form of escapism to spend a Saturday evening watching other people watching beautiful young women.
Hell, I could still get back to Ha Jin.
[Originally posted in parts on Sajha Kurakani, and subsequently published under a pseudonym in The Nepali Times newspaper, 2004
http://www.nepalitimes.com/issue/199/NepaliPan/2562 ]
