You may have an opinion on Aishwarya Rai-Bachchan (Ash) without even knowing it.

You may have decided some 30-odd years ago that she, indeed, was the most beautiful woman in the world, and held fast on to that conviction. Or you may have decided that she was talentless and plastic, and that her smile was ‘fixed’ anyway, as was customary for beauty queens of the day. Alternatively, you may have decided that Ash was irrelevant, because of the qualities mentioned, and in that, had formed the third kind of opinion on her.

Aishwarya isn’t the only woman in the industry she occupies to have faced this kind of scrutiny over what she can offer to her audience.

We admit that film, television and fashion are primarily visual mediums, and agree — with the general awareness people have gained with years of exposure to global content and opinions — that there is too much pressure on those in the public eye to look a certain way. But we also must acknowledge that, because of her long history of media exposure that leaves no aspect of her life sacred, Ash is a microcosm of the kind of scrutiny women in the media — or indeed in society — face.

In this, we are all complicit: we either create or consume content that feeds the need to know everything about our favourite stars. We — even if most vaguely — like at least catching all celebrity red carpet looks, like knowing who has dated who and what someone’s post-pregnancy body looks like.

Decades, if not centuries, of being hardwired to admire women for their youth and beauty have made it tough for any of us to view them without the urge to comment on their physical appearance. The commentary on actor Aishwarya Rai is but a symbol of this…

We do this both as a faceless, genderless audience, and specifically as women. We want to know if someone (eg someone who was once crowned Miss World) who makes billions in her film and ad work and is regularly photographed dressed in expensive clothes and jewellery, is also facing the same appalling dissection of looks and character in her day-to-day life that we do.

It isn’t just that Aishwarya is a woman. Like her Pakistani fans and audience, she is also brown, and rose to transnational fame despite coming from a seemingly typical desi middle-class family. Her triumphs and mistakes were lived out in front of the world.

She was in the ’90s what Mahira Khan became to Pakistan’s television industry in the 2010s. Women actors who have followed in Khan’s footsteps have sometimes mentioned that Mahira Khan made it acceptable for more and more educated women from traditional families to pursue their dreams of acting and stardom.

Their audiences revere them and become deeply invested in their work and their lives. That, of course, comes with a stinging side of anonymous displeasure and commentary as well.

You would like to think, for instance, that we have evolved far enough intellectually to leave someone’s post-partum weight alone, a courtesy that wasn’t extended to Ash when she gave birth in 2011. Or you would consider that, given her comprehensive portfolio of work across industries and countries, we might let her take her next steps or make public appearances without commenting on her size or age.

Instead, we have pictures of Aishwarya at Cannes 2024, in admittedly some terrible ensembles, being razzed on online for bad cosmetic work or trying to camouflage her figure and face with voluminous hair and dresses.

We see candid photos of her on a sunny balcony with her daughter, shot from an unflattering angle with unflattering light, shared and re-shared across social media, ostensibly to gain engagement by drawing together the online community in their favourite pastime — trolling.

The fact is, we can’t help but weigh women’s worth in how young or beautiful they are, or look. And in a visual industry, the older a woman grows, the less she is worth.

Yes, you could argue that there are now more women-centric films and TV series, a wider variety of roles women in their 40s and above can play, that there is an emergence of the female gaze in television and cinema — but it is still not enough.

Decades, if not centuries, of being hardwired to admire women for their youth and beauty have made it tough for any of us to view them without the irritating urge to comment on their physical appearance. The same instinct shows itself surreptitiously in iconic works of art centred around a woman’s looks.

At the height of her cinematic achievements, Aishwarya Rai-Bachchan starred in Taal, Hum Dil Chuke Sanam, and Devdas, all of which unapologetically highlight all that is beautiful about her; through outfits and make-up, through sets and exaggerated expressions. While the films were made by accomplished directors, one can’t see any evidence of those directors pushing Rai as an artist, just as the object central to the visuals of the films.

We can admire Rai’s ambition. She came, she got all the deals and endorsements while she could, and she slayed. At the same time, it is truly depressing to see how dismissive an adoring industry and public can become of a woman who has simply gone through the natural process of ageing.

And if a woman who is counted among the most beautiful in the world can’t escape that fact, what treatment should we expect at our various stations in life, the ordinary women who don’t even have diamonds to weep into?

Published in Dawn, ICON, July 28th, 2024