Suddenly, movie star biographies are in. And to think that no one ever thought of chronicling the lives and careers of such greats as Guru Dutt, Nutan (what an amazing actress she was), Madhubala and Kishore Kumar during their lifetimes.

Today, even a book project on the not-so-greats would be welcomed with an instant contract, as long as it has all the saleable elements of love, an affair or two, and a body of hits which serve as ideal traipses down memory lanes.
Practically every publisher — mostly located in New Delhi — has developed a lust for “as told to” star bios, with one caveat. They must be authorised. That means the star must approve the text, initial every chapter with an “ok”, and then show up in cool evening wear for the book release function. And say how humbled he or she is.
If the star’s attendance and publicity are assured, upscale club lounges don’t submit a bill to the publisher. Wine, cheese, and on occasion, even five-course dinners are thrown in gratis or on a discount. But no star, no book. So I know of at least one expensively mounted coffee table book on a powerhouse Bollywood family which hasn’t been released yet, because its patriarch won’t return the author’s calls. Mercifully, the author hasn’t suffered a nervous breakdown, not yet at least.
Once upon a time, though, star bios were written and sold (very successfully) without informing the subject in question. Vinod Mehta didn’t have to actually, since his eminently readable but masala-stuffed-paperback on Meena Kumari was rush-authored after her death. As for Rekha, she chose to ignore the tell-all volume on her liaisons. Quite naturally, the book was translated into several Indian languages and should have kept its journalist writer in the gravy for the rest of his life.
Banish the thought. Publishers dole out a miserable advance fee which is hardly sufficient to keep the writer in daal-chawal. The advance is deducted from the royalties (usually ranging from 10 to 12 per cent of the book sales) but pray, who is to keep track of the number of copies sold? A book — even an exalted star biography — is a lose-lose situation unless it’s authored by Chetan Bhagat, whose words and paras sell, no matter what. In fact, he’d make a killing if he were to tap Salman Khan for a bio, wouldn’t he?
All right, forget the lousy money factor for the non-Bhagats. Authorised texts, by their very nature, must be hagiographic: One of those praise-me-praise-my-doggy undertakings. Imagine asking Shah Rukh Khan why he hammed so outrageously in Chennai Express! He’d punch the writer’s nose, and the writer won’t be able to punch him back. Or imagine quizzing Katrina Kaif about her much-yakked-about bikini pictures in Ibiza, scooped by Stardust! No way. Bollywood still has to learn the basics of straight talking.
Which is why I’m looking forward essentially to Rishi Kapoor’s biography. He has the guts to own up to his faults, argue but not negatively, and has an amazing life and career to discuss. That’ll be a rocker. For sheer charm and poesy, Dilip Kumar’s autobiography should be interesting at the very least. Really don’t know why his collaborators, biwi Saira Banu and family friend-cum-journo Udaya Tara Nayyar, are still holding the tome back.
Meanwhile, publishers and agents call to ask, “Can you do a book on Rekha, Shabana Azmi, Dharmendra, Hema Malini, Karisma Kapoor, Kareena Kapoor… Hrithik Roshan… what do you think?” Sorry, I don’t think.