My FAMILIARITY with the social calendar of Mumbai is somewhat patchy but not patchy enough to have missed the wedding of Shilpa Shetty, which happened at the weekend.
Actually, I was rather disappointed not to get aninvitation but as her maternal grandmother Vijayakka was excluded too I suppose I can’t complain.
Apparently her Nani may have been punished for giving accurate information to the press.
Earlier this year when I gave Express readers accurate information about the wedding myself, saying it would occur this year, Shilpa (the tricky little minx) put out a press statement saying no, not at all, she was thinking of next year.
That might explain my absence; that, and the fact we have never met. Like you, I only came across her on Celebrity Big Brother but so what?
The point about these reality programmes is you let the participants into your life. I’d hoped she’d let me into hers but apparently not.
Shilpa’s younger sister Shamita pulled out of the Indian version of Big Brother – Bigg Boss – halfway through so she could be with her sister on her big day.
I don’t think I could do similar – just stop working and clear off for a jolly. In current industrial circumstances downing tools at the drop of a hat is likely to reduce you sharpish to asking passers-by to drop coins into said hat.
Had Shilpa ever clapped eyes on me perhaps I, rather than the London-based businessman Raj Kundra, might have been this week’s bridegroom, or so I liked to think.
I imagined she might enjoy the simple life and local curry houses in my bit of north-west London. Now I think maybe not.
Asked by Indian journalists about the wisdom of marrying Raj, a wealthy divorcee, Shilpa said: “We are used to a certain lifestyle and it’s practical to choose a spouse who can at least match those luxuries.”
I don’t know what luxuries Shilpa is used to but I doubt if she would find them round my place. To me the whole point of Shilpa was that, by English standards, she was a very old-fashioned girl.
I do appreciate that nowadays women look after themselves, are wage earners, breadwinners, hunter gatherers, captains of industry and what have you, but it remains a cracking good policy for women (or men come to that) to choose a spouse who can keep them in the manner to which they are – or have not hitherto been – accustomed.
Some people feel that marrying for money isn’t respectable, that it’s immoral even. But to my mind it compares very well with marrying for love.
Love after all is often very temporary and quite hard to identify. Is it love or lust? Is it desperation? Will it still be love when we’re old ?
A large mountain of money, on the other hand – a trust fund, ownership of a thriving medium-sized company, a private island with the cash to run it, a decent collection of Rembrandts – these are the sorts of thing that can bring solidity to a marriage and a great deal of consolation to a divorce.
As we all know, there’s enough to worry about in life without having to worry about money. Nothing about the state of matrimony nowadays suggests that ignoring the “manner to which you are – or would like to be – accustomed” has been a good policy.
These days both partners are expected to arrive well equipped with overlapping skills: women should be the professional equal of men, men the domestic equal of women. It doesn’t make any sense.
Charles Darwin understood why rich men are attracted to beautiful women and vice versa. So should we.
There are pitfalls however, even among the higher orders: “Be wary of too much land. Too much land and you find they can only heat one room in the castle,” said one society woman, “if you want to marry for money – and let’s face it, lots do – make sure he has at least £10million in the bank.”
As it happens, my own style of life has hitherto been quite modest. That’s partly a matter of taste, largely a matter of necessity. But I would be quite willing to try another way. A boy, or even a man, is allowed to dream: Mumbai... mum buy?
It may be my over developed feminine side coming out but in my me-and-Shilpa fantasies I never saw her as Mrs Robson, I saw myself rather as Mr Shetty, with her bringing home the bhuna as it were.
But this time around at least, sadly it was not to be.
