Words work in weird ways. While reading a book on football’s global reach in the 21st century, I found this paragraph.
“In his brilliant, aphoristic Society of the Spectacle, Guy Debord came to define the phenomenon in precisely that way. The media spectacle, whatever its content, would, he predicted, bind great networks of people and institutions together by the mere consumption of imagery, and in so doing establish new relationships of domination and control. The spectacle would not just distract but commodify, blind and stupefy too. Moreover, whatever spontaneous authenticity and lived reality the subject of the spectacle might possess to begin with – be it a musical performance, religious ceremony or game of football – it would inevitably be reshaped by the forces of commerce and power to create a simulacrum, an ever more perfect and ever more fabricated, deracinated version of the real.”
- David Goldblatt, The Age of Football
The depth of this thought held my attention for a while. And then it took my mind from a round mass of synthetic leather to one stripped of all fabric.
Lest Substack flag this newsletter for obscenity — I don’t easily trust things with an orange logo these days — I will keep the pictures away. But you know which ones I’m talking about. If you don’t, congratulations on maintaining a safe distance from the nuclear waste dumps of Twitter and Instagram. This is the photoshoot, if you are curious.
I saw the pictures float on Twitter this week and had to zoom in. I promise you that the first thought in my mind was - How much would his trainer charge for a few sessions? Maybe I can take out a minor loan. Do banks give low-interest rates on loans like this? I mean, that is one spectacular body. It has the aesthetics down to the T: muscular but lean; proportionate gains on deltoids and hamstrings; a perfect concave shape between the torso and midriff.
Only then did it register that he was nude.
**
You wouldn’t know from looking at me, but I love my body. What was fascination as a growing adult(don’t make that joke) has turned into a deep admiration with age and awareness. Sure, it has a loose ligament here and a weak bone there, but it listens to me. There is a direct correlation between the aerodynamic treatment of my outer curves to the contents of my fridge. And it is comforting to know that.
As a young, able male, the gradient of these curves was a subject of intense attention. Predictably, I chased the Brad-Pitt-Fight-Club physique. By the way, what is French for LOL? However, I soon realised that no amount of football could neutralise my love for all things kebab. So, early into adulthood, I gave up that chase. Futility is a tricky sensation to deal with.
This obsession had unhealthy origins. For a few years in secondary school, owing to a bad ankle and the diet of an Olympic weightlifter, I bore the look of a shorter but more exotic version of Obelix. Some of my friends looked like the Class XI students they show in movies: lean, good at sports, and confident around women. On the other hand, I was subject to an unkind version of the cult hit song Gasolina. I let it bother me every day. Michael Jackson’s music wasn’t helping either. The man in the mirror looked terrible. I held my breath and tucked my tummy in, hoping that everyone beyond a threshold of girth would be gifted a puberty arc similar to Hrithik Roshan in Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham.
The journey back to a healthy weight was nothing remarkable. Most good nutritionists and fitness coaches tell you - get the basics right, and the rest will follow. So I made some trade-offs with my fridge and general store, and boom. Hello again, football team. The abs still didn’t come, but by now the penny had dropped. I could chase fitness without running after specific aesthetic standards. Perfect.
Confidence went through the roof. My band’s guitarist was taken aback by the extra bite of my keyboard riffs. I didn’t have to play goalkeeper anymore. At the tennis court nearby, my serve-and-volley game returned. Oof.
It was nice to be fit again. I started keeping monthly goals. Can I walk 5K? Yes? Can I do 7.5? Nice. Now, can I jog 5K? The body responded well. The curves took different, flatter shapes. I looked up Google to check if footwear brands hire calf models. I had two gorgeous ones.
**
But all this time, I did not have the confidence to pull off a body-hugging t-shirt. Or walk out of the washroom without a top on. So the second thought in my head, after marvelling at Ranveer’s physique for a few minutes, was - How did he do that?
I couldn’t be more jealous.
We might like to think so, but most Bollywood A-listers aren’t dumb. They know what’s happening around them, the risk-reward ratio of taking certain stances, and the kind of films that will help move their career forward. Some choose differently than others, but they are rarely clueless. Ranveer Singh knew the repercussions of the photoshoot when he signed the contract, and he would’ve known what was coming as he took his shirt off. In a country tied to your work with an umbilical cord, against the backdrop of a machinery that won’t even spare Shahrukh Khan, you need gigantic dinosaur balls to do this. If it wasn’t clear until now, Ranveer has a few spare ones beyond the necessary number.
A nude photoshoot for Paper Magazine may or may not be art, but a spearhead like Ranveer helps look at a boundary and think of the possibilities beyond. His kind start conversations, plant seeds of thought.
In 1995, Milind Soman and Madhu Sapre did a nude photoshoot for an advertising campaign. There was rage and condemnation, much like the kind you saw this week. Between these two shoots, the internet has become ubiquitous in India. A few hundred million have access to a vast ocean of information and knowledge. And to art that doesn’t bother with moral boundaries. It is quite hilarious to see us resisting change and holding on to the same rage. We can see his bum!
“The photographic paradox can then be seen as the co-existence of two messages, the one without a code (the photographic analogue), the other with a code (the ‘art’, or the treatment, or the ‘writing’, or the rhetoric, of the photograph);”
- Roland Barthes, Images Music Text, 1977
Isn’t it just beautiful that we could see his balls when he was nude and we could see the absence of the same even when he was fully clothed while selfying with the great leader? That too when a group openly threatened to cut his wife’s nose because she dared to show a fraction of skin while playing an imaginary character. I am sorry if this is too political but sadly elephants like me do remember things. Also, elephant describes my lack of body shape or fitness perfectly. I wasn’t aware of this controversy at all so I am kinda sorta amazing (also, I have no friends maybe. Will you be my fraandz?). Share his personal trainer number pronto.
I love your writing Sarthak and I am mindful not to put a jinx on this by expressing happiness for 2 posts in quick succession. Cheers!
Lovely piece! Really enjoyed the way you described your personal journey :)