They hate it so much that they love it. It means wetting the lips, separating the upper and lower lips to suggest a hint of the pearly whites, darting desire — carnal or vegetarian — via brandy-hued contact lenses, exposing mid-riff, er cleavage if it’s to be a magazine cover pic, and well, strike a haughty pose which spells s..e..x..y.

Welcome to the whirl of star photo-sessions, a mandatory must-do in the business of image-building, oozing glamour on the mediascape, and of course, generating content for those internet wallpapers downloaded by star fans and assorted titillation seekers. Funnily, there’s an entire cyber cosmos stacked with severely photo-shopped images of the A-list heroines, as well as the chest-enhanced heroes.
Download categories range from the ‘bikini’ and ‘hot’ to the ‘nudie’. Oh oh, never mind if the hotties are morphed ond frequently, reveal no more than a leg peeping out of a multi-layered sarong. No one has quite achieved the wet peekaboo allure of Mandakini in a waterfall yet, not even Mallika Sherawat whose chief claim to ill-fame happens to be those angry young liplocks with Emraan Hashmi. How murderous is that!
Okay, so what am I getting at? It’s simply this: without photo-sessions there would be no show business. Incidentally, they cost a bomb for the magazine since the star’s make-up person-plus-assistant, hairdresser-plus-attitude and valet-plus-valet have to be paid their daily wages, slap-up meals and select savouries. And woe betide, if the hairdresser surreptitiously conducts a megathon conversation on the ISD phone line, missing her kid brother stationed in Alaska, Antwerp or Addis Ababa. I’ve experienced that, was berated by the magazine’s accounts department, but my lips remained sealed. No complaints could be registered with the hairperson’s star in question. Have to be cool and gentlemanly, you know.
The film personalities who’re a dream to click wouldn’t occupy the space of more than a line or two in this column: Rekha, Amitabh Bachchan Sr, all the Kapoors save for one notable exception, Arjun Rampal, John Abraham, and ewww Raakhi Sawant who kept disrobing for the Nikons and Canons, emphasising, “Jo dikhta hai woh bikta hai.” Polite translation: What you see is what sells. Quite.
Of course, it has to be ensured that the star is snug as a bug in the company of the glam-photographer. The star specifies his or her choice. On taking stock, the leading favourites have been Gautam Rajadhyaksha, Suresh Natarajan, Dabboo Ratnani, and since he is locked into multiple endorsement deals, Atul Kasbekar. Rakesh Shreshta could make a block of wood look like molten lava. And Jayesh Sheth could fetch up in a split second at an airfield to click Richard Gere, on his private jetplane trips to Mumbai. Then the Pretty Man nuzzled Shilpa Shetty. The ensuing controversy meant no more pics.
All this, but naturally, leads up to my three most nightmarish photo-sessions, kicking off with the Kapoor ‘exception’: Kareenaji. My friend, Shantanu Sheorey who wouldn’t click B-wood gals unless he was forced at gun-point, agreed to photograph the first official shoot of Kareena Kapoor. She was nervous, I was trembling like an autumn leaf, Shantanu grinned as if Kareena and I were stand-up comics.
Meanwhile mum Babita took charge, “No, not like that, definitely not like this, do it that way, no no, try another angle.” The hood of Shantanu’s camera went up like a cobra’s, “Hisssssss, what’s going on?” The photos (before the digital era) were messy, another session was done by Dabboo Ratnani. As promised the best result was published on the cover, even if Ms K K looked like a runaway school kid. Hopefully, the issue would sell because it was… aieeeee different… it didn’t. Gratifyingly, Kareenaji is much more comfortable at still life now, evidenced particularly in her ad endorsements. Wonder if Babitaji still supervises the coolest angles.
Over to Salman Khan. I nearly tore off my shirt in this instance. To acquire a studio-lit photo of his was like acquiring a Rolls Royce. Very aspirational. He would be clicked only by his most trusted photographer who hung around his house. Nothing wrong with that but this photographer refused to part with half a pic, since Salman believed every media person came out of a poison bottle. Some lobbying later, Trusted Photowalla was told by the elder section of the Khan family, “How dare you do that! Give him the photos. Apologise.” Trusted dude mumbled a monosyllable sounding like sorry. Vaguely.
This wasn’t working. I still needed a shot for the cover of the magazine’s annual edition. To the rescue, came Karisma Kapoor. “Don’t worry,” she consoled me. “I’ll land up at his house early in the morning, I’ll get it done. Chill.” The morning session happened. Life is beautiful and all that. On seeing the pics, though, my heart sank like the Titanic. Salman Khan was looking boringly prim and propah, up to his neck in a ribbed sweater, with so much of a dark background that it looked like a shot out of Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s Black. No flicker of that legendary chest. No time now to beg, borrow or steal a quintessential Salman in the buff. Deadline was thickening, no option. Ulp. My colleagues glared daggers as if I’d killed their pet canaries.
And for no fault of his, Chandrachur Singh who was maachis hot property for the shortest time imaginable, struck the sleepiest expression possible, for a shoot. Worse, the camera guy (let him go unnamed please) had the same effect on Chandrachur’s cover co-star Urmila Matondkar. All the pics shot showed them, not with bedroom but with Kumbhakaran eyes. Totally zzzzzz.
Once again, that deadline menace prevented a damage-control session. So, both Chandrachur and Urmila were featured, on the cover, with eyes wide shut. Curiously though, the issue flew off the shelves.
Still, the moral of the story is pass around huge coffee tumblers please, before any photo shoot. Or else risk a cover with sadroom eyes.