THE (UN)NICENESS OF FANS

^{Image Courtesy : AI generated image by Arundhati K}

Some months ago there swirled a warm debate among a few of my author friends. Now that its chaleur has died down, I reflect again on its elements. It all began with the premise that celebrities may not be inclined to indulge their fans every single moment. They too have their off days when they are tired or upset or just not in the mood, when they should be excused from acquiescing to fans’ requests. A few gender-related questions got thrown up too as the particular celebrity discussed was a female film actor: she had been criticised by a corporate czar for ignoring her fans, for not reciprocating their show of affection. The take of the debate initiator, a bestselling woman author and my friend, was that women celebs more than their male counterparts are expected to be nice, to sweetly agree to photos, sign autographs, respond to everything that is said to them. Women as much as men need their own space and their defending their privacy shouldn’t be (mis)construed as hauteur or a bloated ego.

Of course, there are many who believe that once you start shining in the public domain you are obliged to satisfy all those who propelled you into that limelight. It is by virtue of their buoyant fandom that you receive adulation that could outstrip the measure of your talent and work. Be nice, always, regardless. And being nice isn’t a gender specification. It’s just plain etiquette, a prescription for all. Good manners. Common sense too if you want to retain that fan following that helps tag your name with the mega bucks that you are privileged to earn. A prerequisite of the stardom that you aspired to. Plus, you are now a role model, people are watching you, emulating you, always be mindful and behave well. That was the drift of the arguments that countered a celeb’s right to shake off unwanted attention.

Well, I have no clue as to what goes on in a celebrity’s head though I have some sympathy for them. I wouldn’t know how different their off days are from mine, how tired is their kind of tired or how exactly is their busy or lonely or frustrated or disappointed or whatever. Nor am I familiar with the complexities of the challenges they face. I suspect the higher they go up their ladder, the more rarified the common convivial air gets, plucking them further off their ground reality. Bonhomie with fans may then not come easily, though many continue with it, some from a genuine amiability, some as a pragmatic necessity.

I also wouldn’t know how to be nice, consistently, that is, unfailingly, across the spectrum of all kinds of ordinary and quirky people that come my way. I’m sure many of those who know me well would say that I have my moods, sociable at times, distant at others. I often find it difficult to be sweet and smiling with the people I am close to. Strangers? Nah. I may not be rude but I am not indulgent or fawning either. My sister would often laugh and say, Rohini, you have such a forbidding look about you, nobody would ever dare approach you! Ha! If I look forbidding, what I think about fandom today can be killing. Not that I have fans. Just saying.

I am a fan of many people: singers, authors, actors, sportspersons, teachers, philosophers, activists, some extremely famous among them, some not so much. I have a moderate appetite for news about them, for the little snippets about their idiosyncrasies as well. But I wouldn’t go dig them up. Or, if I see them at the airport or on my flight I definitely wouldn’t accost them with even an innocuous ‘Hello!’. I would hate to intrude. I do not feel entitled to their precious time or attention. Yes, if an opportunity presents itself when they are in a chatty mood, I would love to pick their brains a bit, understand the how and why of their work. Otherwise, I am content to enjoy the fruits of their excellence: the music they bring, the books they write, the lectures they give, the art they create, the sport they have conquered, the causes they espouse and the betterment they initiate. I am a fan not so much of them as persons but of their extraordinary talents, their phenomenal self-belief and passionate commitment to their work.

I remember once many, many years ago when I was a gawkish teenager, the celebrated maestro, Pt Bhimsen Joshi, had invited my parents and my uncle and aunt (the latter then settled in the UK, hosting Bhimsenji) to his home for a meal. My mother casually remarked that his true bhakt was at home. He promptly rose to drive over and fetch me. Of course, my parents would hear none of it but on his insistence my father came and took me over. I remember being painfully tongue-tied in his presence, and while he sat next to me, telling me gently to eat well, that singers need to be strong and healthy, I could barely mumble my thanks. I was overwhelmed by him, not only by his enormous stature in classical music, but also by his affectionate care, his down-to-earth-ness. I remained starstruck shy. That evening he grew so much larger than even his humongous talent. I had always loved his music and now I loved his kindness too.

But even if he had remained reserved and remote I would still have remained his loyal, adoring fan. As I was of Kishori Tai’s (Amonkar). But this diva had a notoriety of being difficult, reportedly a nightmare for concert organisers, fussy about sound systems and lights and so on. Yet, everyone was spellbound by her gayaki, transported to ecstasy, swaying with her as she floated ethereally through the Raga of the day. And by everyone I mean not only her diehard fans but also the harassed organisers! In fact, I would sympathise with her more than with them: how could we expect her to immerse herself in her art, summon her elusive muse, weave magic, if she were distracted? How could she lose herself in that refined yet abstract world of a Jhinjhoti, for example, if the mundane material world held her back in its uncomfortable constraints? Any and all of her reclusiveness and fussiness melted away when she sang, she connected us to the very fount of that divine swar, showing us paradisiacal realms that we could never imagine. However aloof or demanding or difficult, she was always our beloved Gaan Saraswati.

I would love to talk to authors past and present not only about their craft, where they get their story ideas from, how they imagine their characters and devise situations to put them in, but also to understand their views on their contemporary socio-economic-political realities. But again, I am not entitled to have my questions answered by them. I read their novels and essays, listen to their lectures and speeches, read their interviews and feel both enlightened and humbled.  

Singers, writers, painters, dancers, composers, sportspersons et al often shine brilliantly, leaving us awed by their feats, enriching our lives, inspiring us all. I am aware that without their fan following these creative giants might be shorn of their extremely privileged positions. But that doesn’t mean that they are owned by their fans. Judge their work, folks. Condemn the work if it doesn’t meet your expectations but not the worker just because she remained aloof and deaf to your selfie requests. Cricketers, footballers, tennis stars, cinema stars, pop and rock artists, have fans and followers in millions if not billions. I too would swoon if Federer appeared anywhere in my vicinity. But that doesn’t mean that I expect him to stop and pose for a selfie with me. He should feel free to go about his business without needing to accommodate his billion fans along the way. Of course, if he does, he remains a hero to them. But if he doesn’t, does that make him a villain? Hey, if he chooses to never be as charming as he normally is, he would still be the magician of tennis.

Previously it was only the paparazzi that would hound stars, publishing photographs and gossipy news about them, ad nauseum, all of it driven by insatiable fans, by the lucre promised in their frenzy. Today that is compounded by the phone in every person’s hand, its camera, and the impatient hunger to upload all on the omnipresent and omnipotent social media. A boon for those who want to cultivate their fan following, feel validated by their support; a bane for those who are reclusive, preferring to let only their work speak for itself. If you have won even a modicum of success, every little detail about you gets checked out and circulated, praised or panned, virally so. The clothes you wear, the way you walk, your speech, your silence, your choices, your entourage, your families, your babies, their names, where and with whom you eat or shop or swim or sleep, every single thing. All under a microscope, all eyes trained on it. I find that scarily unhealthy. And maybe when someone starts their career in films or cricket say, they dream of becoming famous, even to being mobbed one day. When that becomes an everyday occurrence, its novelty wears off. And then they may distance themselves a bit from fans. They may tell us, watch my film if you wish, watch me bat or bowl, read my book, listen to my songs, not if you don’t, just leave me alone. They will be trolled, hurtfully, liable to sink lower and lower in public regard. For fandom if not fed can be viciously unforgiving.

So, if we feel free to prescribe a code of conduct for celebrities, why not one for fans? Do not intrude. Respect privacy. However much the stars may need you to retain their lustre, they are not your property. You are not entitled to them being nice. When you see them at airports and restaurants, understand that they may not be happy for you to pop a camera in their faces, to be dragged into the frame with you, your hand proprietorially on their shoulder. Give them their space. Be respectful. Be nice.  

My author-friend also contended that women in general, celebrity or not, get a lot of flak if they are not nice. Apart from writing books she has a successful corporate career and speaks from experience. And I understand her point. Conventionally, being nice goes with the territory of being a woman. What is par behaviour for a male, could be viewed as unacceptable for a female. He is ambitious, rightly so, but her ambition may epitomise the b-word. If they are aloof, he must be focused on his work, she a snob. She can never be too busy to smile, to answer queries however inane they may be, mouth a million pleases and thank-yous. Perhaps serve the tea/coffee to all in a conference room or in a business discussion even when she is one of the speakers or negotiators. Wait for others to finish speaking before putting her view across and that too with gratitude for being lent an ear. Dress pleasingly, always be easy on the eyes. Be okay to let a man’s hand rest on her, accept it as nicely avuncular, understand, accommodate. Yikes! And if she can’t be and do all of that then something must be wrong with her. She must have an inflated opinion of herself. She must be undeservedly arrogant. Pray, what would be deservedly? Male, I guess.

Well, the corporate czar who condemned the female film star’s unresponsiveness to her fans may not be guilty of that prejudice. Yet he voiced an opinion. He assumed a prerogative to do so, maybe he believed that his phenomenal success in today’s meritocracy entitled him to. Take it or leave it. Yet media and fans, his and hers, raised a hullabaloo. Brickbats were traded, histories and names were raked, who’s nice, who isn’t, why and why not. People took sides, battled in earnest. That’s the age we live in, even a sneeze gets magnified into a volcanic eruption. And this was criticism. Of an idol by an idol. The idols quickly continued to go about their businesses while the idolators itched and frothed for a while. Until the next such episode, that is. Nice?