The Hashtag Generation

Escaping through porn might be de rigueur in Mysore but in Sikar, a district in the barren Shekhawati belt of Rajasthan, it was learning of a completely different nature that received peer approval. Here, as I discovered a week later, learning and not escaping through social media is how teenagers attempted to break free from the shackles of traditional society.

I was at the only gated all-girls private university in the region which offered courses from kindergarten right up to the masters level. It was a favourite with business-class marwari parents who could now give their girls an education but at the same time ensure that they ‘didn’t get out of hand’. A girl could spend her whole life on the 500-acre lush green campus and never know what life outside in the desert state and beyond was like. But as a group of girls pointed out to me, there were two ways in which they could deal with their fate. Either give up and escape into a fantasy life online, like the boys in Mysore, or they could find new ways to fight against their destiny. And thanks to social media, the latter option, really wasn’t all that difficult anymore.

‘So the one advantage of this university, aside from the fact that they keep us “safe” all the time, is that they really encourage you to read books outside of your curriculum. Once you’ve read Austen, Brontë, Tolstoy, Oscar Wilde or Virginia Woolf, how can you possibly succumb to escapism? You’ll want to work harder to chart a different course for your life,’ explained one girl, whose parents ran a textile business in nearby Jaipur and had rejected offers from five different colleges, including Delhi University, because they wanted their daughter to attend an all-vegetarian institute. ‘They were thrilled with this place. The food here is pure vegetarian, the bread and milk is all sourced in-house and you’ve to recite these long Sanskrit prayers every single time you eat, even if it is just to snack on a packet of chips. I mean, on one hand they don’t want to be those backward, sexist parents whose girls didn’t receive an education but on the other hand they still want us to be conformist and conservative. But now, if this is life, then this is life. No use complaining about it.’

So what did she do instead? She went on YouTube and Facebook and Pintrest and Edx to learn fashion design every single night. ‘I have enrolled for several MOOCs and video tutorials. I have even saved up enough money to enrol for a long-distance course in fashion. I am going to pursue that degree and next month when I graduate from my engineering course here, I am going to move in with a cousin in Delhi and look for a job there. My parents can’t do anything about it then,’ explained the young girl, adding that she’d managed to connect with this ‘excommunicated’ cousin all thanks to Facebook. ‘My family disowned her when she married a Delhi boy and moved away. She understands my plight and will help me out. Social media is wonderful if you use it right.’

Several other girls nodded in agreement. One girl added that thanks to WhatsApp she was able to help her orphaned boyfriend expand his kirana [retail] shop business in nearby Bikaner. ‘We now fulfil orders through the app because it’s free of cost. And we are also able to connect with other suppliers for better quality stock. You just wait and see, one day he is going to have a huge supermarket of his own. He will have lots of money and people will be scared of him. Then he will come for me,’ she said with so much conviction that I could almost picture a man turning up from behind the barbed fences that enclosed the institute and asking for her hand in marriage. Heaven knows, with the 50 purebred horses on campus, escape could be wonderfully romantic. ‘One must always have hope,’ added the 18-year-old girl, interrupting my thoughts. Her parents, also from Bikaner, owned a small sweet shop and had already fixed her marriage with the son of the owner of a neighbouring sweet shop but that didn’t stop her from harbouring hope.

Hope was certainly the keyword here. It is what kept these girls going. Hope that simply hadn’t existed before social media reached this remote corner of the country. And now whether it was reconnecting with lost relatives, staying in touch with their soulmates, learning how to crochet or simply enhancing their vocational skills, these girls had found reason to dream. ‘My parents stopped my singing lessons after I completed school. But now thanks to Skype my guru is still able to train me in secret. She is doing it because she wants to train me to be a teacher. And one day I will be one,’ said yet another girl, her eyes glistening with anticipation from under the dupatta she had wrapped around her head. The campus might be home to 400 trees and 14 colossal fountains but there’s only so much you can do to pretend that you aren’t still in the middle of a desert.

‘Do any of you use social media to post updates or photos?’

‘Sometimes,’ answered the girl, her eyes turning thoughtful now. She stretched her legs out as she considered my question. Two feet with chunky toe-rings popped out from under the hem of her crisp white salwar. After a few minutes, during which all the other girls remained respectfully silent, she spoke again. ‘It’s just not something that is useful to us. It’s okay once in a while and I can’t say that I’ve never tried to meet some new boys online but it was too fake and pretentious to pursue. Plus, when I read Sheryl Sandberg’s autobiography, I realized if you want to do something with your life then you really can’t pursue fruitless endeavours. But there are plenty who think differently. Like my cousins in Lucknow, their whole lives are on social media. If you want to really know what’s happening online, then that’s the place to go.’

And so I did.

***

I knew that I had come to the right place the moment I walked into the banquet hall of Silhouette Hotel. The three-star facility was a new addition to a growing class of business hotels in Lucknow. There, between tufts of cotton wool and a blue cardboard life-size airplane, the yummy mummys of the city helped themselves to copious amounts of kebabs, groupies and gossip, while their tired husbands sulked in the background or at the bar (appropriately labelled as ‘Jet Fuel’). We were at a toddler’s birthday bash and his gushing parents had come up with a theme party to mark the occasion. Of course, there was nothing special about it for the guests who’d just arrived. This was just another regular social commitment in their calendar. If they hadn’t been here, they would’ve certainly been somewhere else, perhaps at a couple’s first anniversary, a sangeet, a picnic or an engagement ceremony. But there was, however, something very special in the way they’d dressed this evening. Each and every one of them, without exception, looked as if they’d walked off a fashion runaway. Except for the men of course, who looked like, well, men.

‘Theme parties are extremely popular now. Favourite character, all red, black and white, Bollywood divas, beach style, prom – you name it! I know someone who recently attended one where she had to copy a vintage look from her mother’s old photographs. The hardest part is to choose something new and appropriate to wear each time. You can’t wear the same look more than once. Even if people don’t remember, Facebook will,’ explained one guest to me. She wore a black strapless evening gown with five strings of gleaming diamonds wrapped around her slender neck.

‘Are they real?’ I asked a friend who had brought me along. The wealth in this room couldn’t just be seen, it could be felt. It was evident in the way the women casually left their purses unattended and headed for the washroom, in the name-dropping and the iPhones that did the rounds. The guests were all from the city’s bureaucracy or business-class. Most of the wives did not work but helped out in the family business. They may have been graduates but their real success lay in marrying into not just a wealthy family but a socially relevant one.

‘Yes, they’re real. These people don’t wear costume jewellery. It would lower their status,’ whispered my friend, just as the party’s hostess came sashaying up to us in a skin-tight red gown. The fat rubies on her ears and fingers positively sparkled.

‘Thank you so much for coming,’ she murmured as she hugged my friend, all the while eyeing me curiously. My simple monochrome raw silk kurta stood out like a sore thumb in this sea of designer wear. I felt unkempt and provincial, even though I was the one from the larger city. I thought back to the conversation I had had with a colleague right before I left for the airport. ‘Remember to wear traditional clothes to blend in,’ she had said to me with a stern look; the advice came thanks to her own visit to the city six years ago. As two girls in ballgowns pouted for the camera holding a slice of birthday cake, I realized just how much had changed in half a decade.

Thankfully, my friend had done some damage control by introducing me to the hostess as a writer from Delhi. I could tell the big city tag worked wonders with her. ‘Oh, yes. I was in Gurgaon last month. Great city. I hope you enjoy yourself here,’ she said before moving on to greet another couple.

As soon as she departed, another woman came forward to greet my friend. ‘Ah, social media. Lucknow couldn’t exist without it,’ she tittered, then lowered her voice and added with much relish, ‘I know of a girl who cuts her husband out of photographs and then posts them online because she wants the focus to only be on her.’ Her heavily caked face turned red with pleasure as she continued to dish out the latest social gossip.

‘Do you use social media?’ I asked.

‘Yes. It’s great. Excuse me, I must get back to my son,’ and she walked off towards a young boy of six. He squirmed and protested as she dragged him off to the party photo booth, leaving my friend and I to admire the easy manner in which she managed both herself and the child in six-inch heels.

‘So is everyone here married?’

‘Mostly married. Wives here work hard to look fashionable. They enjoy being admired. Besides, in Lucknow, a single girl from a good family cannot go to a party and expect to walk out with an unknown guy. The whole city will talk . . . ’

‘Wow,’ I interrupted, as I gawked at a 40-something woman who had just walked in with her husband. She wore a sheer lace top and a skirt printed with Audrey Hepburn’s face in the classic Andy Warhol design. But it was her hair that really grabbed my attention. She’d laboriously braided it into small plaits and then twirled it all into an elaborate French bun. ‘I didn’t expect Lucknow to be so liberal.’

‘It’s not liberal. It’s aspirational,’ my friend corrected me. ‘These women all aspire to be considered sophisticated and polished. Aspiration keeps morality at bay. But it doesn’t keep conservativeness away. People are still very conservative in their behaviour. For example, there’s a clear elder-youngster divide here,’ she added, pointing at the rows of tables behind us where a number of grandparents were sitting and guzzling cups of Fanta. ‘Wait till all the elders leave, then the party will really start. More people will head to the bar and a few might even take to the dance floor.’ As if to emphasize her point, the outdoor band suddenly launched into a hip-hop version of the Bollywood favourite, Baby Doll.

Munching on a piece of slightly-burnt jalebi, I turned to my friend and asked, ‘Brands matter a lot here, right?’

‘Status matters a lot here. Bling, designer labels, destination weddings, elite kitties—these are the modern ways for a newly married woman to keep her status secure in society. As is Facebook and most of social media. My newsfeed is crowded with photos of weddings, parties or holidays. It’s an easy way to bring attention to your lifestyle and friends.’

The taste of acrid charcoal from the jalebi was still hovering on my tongue. I grabbed a glass of soda and immediately wished I hadn’t. It was sickeningly sweet. ‘Well, the clothes might be trendy but the food certainly isn’t,’ I complained.

‘We still have a long way to go before we start serving paella and Sunday roast here…. In Lucknow, you pay for the location,’ she lifted her shoulders slightly and gestured towards a woman who was happily tucking her head under her husband’s chin, all ready to pose for a romantic selfie against the lobby’s shiny new walls.

A sudden yawn caught me by surprise. It was 11 pm and I was ready to call it a night. But the party had just begun for the men and women who streamed out onto the driveway where a banner reading ‘Up up and away, thanks for flying with us’ flitted about in the wind. As they waited for the valet to bring around their Porsches, BMWs, Aston Martins and Mercedes, they discussed their next destination. Some would head out for a cup of coffee, a few wanted to drive around the city, while others preferred to attend a late-night lounge party and then grab a round of drinks at the Taj Hotel in Gomti Nagar. But around 2 am, when all their social engagements would assuredly be over, their nights would all converge at the same place where it had begun—on Facebook. The comments and likes on the evening’s picture bounty would be their reward for spending an entire afternoon at the salon, enduring hours in painfully high heels, coercing their husbands and bored children into posing with the duck face ‘one last time’ and making endless small talk with familiar faces on their social circuit.

200 likes—what a great night!

( Excerpted from Look Up: Social Media and the Addiction No One Is Talking About by Sonali Acharjee, Hay House,  Pages 240, Rs 350)

hashtagsinformation technologysocial mediasociety