Growing up in the 90s, most Indian males fantasized about the day they could bring Pam Anderson home as their bahu—-she all sharmili in her red Baywatch-bikini colored sari, her mangalsutra gleaming in the diffused light, coming to the room with a glass of milk.
And then she would bend down and touch our feet.
Well at least bend down.
But we knew it was simply a fantasy. After all, why would Pam Anderson ever come to India when she had the sunny beaches of California to frolic in? After all, what did we Indian men, with our ability to recite multiplication tables upto twenty-three, have to offer her that she couldnt get from Tommy Lee and Kid Rock?
Why would she ever, to paraphrase the words from the Pardes song, do a “zyara monitor se nikalke saamne a meri mehe-booba”? Why indeed?
Well now she has. And if there any further proof needed as to why India is shining, then one look no further than the fact that we have finally been able to get her, in flesh and blood. So who cares that she is now slightly long in the tooth and that the warranty on her implants might have expired? After all, if we Indians can’t do a mean service contract, who can?
I confess to have had a soft corner for Pam. Most of the magnetic bubbles of the floppy disks I owned were used to store the RGB values of her flesh-tones, most entries in my hard disk’s File Allocation Table pointed to different parts of her. My college backpack had a plastic box full of floppies I carried around like a first-aid box. One of these floppies contained a shareware program called SVGA which allowed one to view JPGs on DOS machines (since not all machines had Windows 3.1 and Paintshop Pro was a pain) very fast (like when the teacher in Numerical Analysis Lab would go out for a smoke) and the others, even though labelled in a Freudianly sinister way “InsertionSort (C++)” and “BubbleSort (C++)” [putting D++ would have been too obvious] simply had different pictures of Pamela Anderson (Ok some were of Cindy Crawford also). When she as a spokesman for the PETA informed us about how chickens are bred to be top-heavy in poultries and how the weak legs of the chickens cannot support their heavy chest, I applauded her for sympathizing with their plight. When she starred in Barb Wire, a re-make of Casablanca in a strip club, I applauded her acting abilities (though I would have appreciated a line in the movie which went “Do it again Sam”). I applauded her non-acting abilities in some of the independent films that she starred in, shot home-video style.
In short, I adore her. The part of her which was real. And even more that which was imaginary. A most complex emotion if I may say so.
Given this long history, allow me to feel a sense of vindication that Pam Anderson has finally come to India.
Allow me please to feel proud of how much our generation has achieved, becoming from a country that had to barter its gold in 1991 to one that brings in the sona in 2011.
So Claudia, Sheryln and all the other sand-stuffers and heavy-top wannabes take a hike.
The original is here.