by KARAN JOHAR
Filmmaker Karan Johar with actor Fawad Khan PHOTO/Brand Synario
While most people have alarm clocks, I get to wake up every morning to “gay ma*****od [mother****er], good morning”.
It is, I grant you, not the usual, but there it is.
I was one of the first early Twitter users from the film fraternity. And back then in 2009, I thought I was going to enter a world where people liked me, knew me, knew my work – it was going to be fine! All about the love, not the hate. And it was. At first.
But then started the phase where I began to wake up to “gay ma*****od, good morning”. Every morning. Or just “hi gay”. I am routinely called “chakka“. Every so often, I’m told I’m a transsexual/transvestite/sister-shagging homosexual, which is actually, if you think about it, a contradiction in terms.
And I’ve tried to figure out what’s behind the nonstop trolling. I’ve discussed it with friends, family, even my therapist. Why is it that every time I put up a pouting picture on Instagram, I’m just called chakka, gay, I’m told “chup kar ch***ye? That’s my favourite, by the way. My absolute favourite. Anything I ever say, these three golden words are thrown at me.
So I’m back at my therapist asking what is it about me that makes people abuse me. I understand I’m not the most masculine human being, I’m not the most macho stud walking the block, and I also understand (even if I think it’s ridiculous) that if you’re seen as a little effeminate, you’re made fun of. And I know I can be sometimes, especially when I dance. (When I dance I forget what happens to my hands and feet, and it’s a bit of a problem. You see, while in my heart I feel I’m matching Vyjayanthimala and Hema Malini step for step, I also know I’m coming across as a strange caricature of a Hindi film heroine. On acid.) Then there’s the fact that I pout and I can’t help it because I want to suck in my cheekbones, and then my lips protrude (and I do have kind of luscious lips), and there I am, and I can never smile for a picture again. If I did have a six-pack to show and a great waistline to put out there to the universe or beautiful muscular legs, then I would not have to pout. The only thing I have going for me is a jawline. And dammit, I will use it! And so, ok, when I do, my eyes on their own sort shift to a half-lidded, Blue Steel type stare, but well, it goes so well with the pout. Of course now I’ve reached a point where I no longer know how to smile for a camera. It has become a disorder: I call it poutitus. (Maybe medical science could call me since I’m so good with the diagnosis?) And since I am so afflicted, I clearly deserve the trolling I get daily.
Only, of course not.
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