He’s GOT the look

When I walk into the rehearsal hall for the Mr Navi Mumbai pageant, I immediately walk out again. “I’m looking for the beauty contestants,” I ask a confused security guard. 

Just then, a turbaned man, who turned out to be Manmeet, one of the pageant organisers, jogs out from the room I had exited. “You’re just in time,” he says. We walk back in together.

The large room is empty except for a few foldable metal chairs scattered next to a coffee machine, and a table with a battered-looking laptop on it. Lounging around the room are the fourteen finalists for the Mr Navi Mumbai pageant, the first of its kind to be held in the suburb.

“The personality development class is about to begin,” says Shelly, Manmeet’s sister and a co-organiser, pulling me towards the chairs. “I’ll introduce you to the boys.”

The beauty of normalcy

The contestants arrange themselves in a semi-circle around us. As I see them gathered around, I am forced to admit the real reason I walked out of the rehearsal hall: nobody looks like a beauty pageant contestant: they all look so…normal. Where are the comically-ballooned biceps? Where are the chiseled jaws and the quizzical squints of manufactured intensity?

The nervous-looking boys in front of me run the gamut in terms of looks: one is a bespectacled, paunchy type who looks like he’s come straight from engineering college. A few have gelled their hair into spikes. Another has popped the collar of his jacket, obscuring the  entire lower half of his face.

The instructor, who also runs an English language learning centre, looks battle-hardened. “Let’s start with the introduction round.”

The first one up is the curly-haired pubescent, Vineet, who turns out to be all of 18. “I am Vineet from Ghatkopar. I like…um,” he stops.

A contestant sitting across from him giggles and nudges his neighbour, earning a “shh!” from the instructor. “I like footballing and cricketing,” Vineet continues, earning another high-pitched giggle from the earlier offender. “Boys! No laughing,” barks the instructor. “Vineet, you like ‘football’ and ‘cricket’.” Vineet hangs his head. “Okay everybody, clap for Vineet!” The room applauds half-heartedly.

Next up is Abhijeet, he of the hugely-popped collar. “My fashion — sorry, I mean passion — is modelling and my fashion — sorry, passion — is also Mumbai,” he blurts out, sitting down quickly. “Okay, everybody clap for Abhijeet!” says the instructor. The pageant is four days away, but Manmeet isn’t worried. “We are still training them,” he says with a big smile. “We will get them makeovers, and then you see them!”

It’s the turn of the contestant who has been snickering incessantly. There is a hostile silence as he stands up. He is short, dark-complexioned, has a large nose and a grin that splits his face in half. His confidence is palpable, and loud: “Wha-DAPPPPPP Mumbai!” he bellows. The contestants around him jump back in fright. “I am Sufiyan, from the city of dreams, Mumbai. I like the workout and keeping fit! It’s great to see all you people here!” With a huge grin, he flops back down. “Sufiyan, what energy!” says the instructor happily. “Everybody, clap!”

Of questions and set-ups

Now it is time for the question-answer round. “Here’s a common question: some people say it’s a man’s world. What do you think?” asks the instructor. Everybody shakes their head vigorously. One of them, in a fit of inspiration, points at me. “Look, women are journalists now. They can do anything!” This advocate for women’s right to ‘do anything’turns out to be Prateish from Vashi, a rugged-looking, headband-wearing model who used to work for Kingfisher. “My parents didn’t like me being a model,” he admits. “But now they’re proud. I mean, today a model earns more than a doctor!”

It’s time for ramp-walk practice. Sparsha, a tiny Goan girl who once won six pageants in a single year, jumps into action with surprising authority. She clicks the laptop: Flo Rida’s voice booms out. “Okay, boys, walk!” she shouts over the music. The contestants start walking towards us one at a time. They all do some sort of ‘move’ at the end: Vineet break-dances, Prateish sticks his thumbs down his waistband and glares, and Sufiyan trails a finger down his chest. Sparsha breaks down the contestants with professional bluntness. “Sufiyan has Roadies written all over him. This guy,” she points to a somewhat-athletic-looking contestant, “he can do print but no ramp or TV. Doesn’t have the face for it.”

One contestant, who has been shooting me looks since I came in, pulls me aside and says that “he’ll talk” on the condition of anonymity. I am intrigued by this glimpse into the murky side of a Navi Mumbai male beauty pageant, and agree. “It’s a set-up,”he says ominously. “Daal mein kuchh kaala hai. They’ve decided who’s going to win.” They’ve been favouring him —” he points at a tall man — “he’s really experienced and stuff.” (For all you conspiracy theorists, the same tall guy won the pageant four days later.)

As the day winds down, a serious-faced Sufiyan details his financial issues for me. “I was very poor,” he says. “Pitaji had some financial problems. Some bad people…anyway. We used to live in a chawl. We borrowed a lot of money. I am looking for a job. But I would like it if I got famous and made a lot of money.” ‘Famous’ is a buzzword for Sufiyan. “I want to be, you know, famous,” he says, waving his arms. “Everywhere, people should know me. Like Salman bhai. I will be famous, this is my only plan.” Does he want to be an actor? “Yes, a famous actor!” he replies. “First this pageant, then Bollywood!”