Suhana Suffer: Stop Whining about the Vogue Cover


Suhana Suffer: Stop Whining about the Vogue Cover

Illustration: Akshita Monga

Everybody is getting their knickers in a twist because Suhana Khan made it to the cover of a magazine that no one reads anymore. I am not even trying to be caustic – you can blame millennial life for relegating magazines to showpieces on the side tables of salons for bored women to glance through once they’ve read all the WhatsApp forwards on their phones twice. There was a time I’d read Cosmopolitan for its “69 ways to make a man your slave for life” listicles, or Stardust to find out why Rekha won’t talk to Sawan Kumar anymore.

But then I moved on to more exciting pastures for my daily laughs. Republic TV, for instance.  

Now if you’re wondering who the eff Suhana Khan is, I suggest you stop reading this piece right now. And those of you who do and are still upset that the girl who has nothing to her credit besides her famous genes and still enjoys celebrity status, gather around me, please. I’m going to address you as “Children,” because that’s exactly how you’ve been behaving while whining about nepotism that got her to a place that many aspiring models and actors would give an arm and leg for.

I wish all of us could get to choose our parents like Suhana or Taimur. If I had the choice I’d have chosen a rich, supremely dishonest politician for a dad and gone to the mall to shop for my Fendi with 16 security men in tow. Unfortunately, instead of rich parents, life gives you lemons. So even though you were one of the 300 million sperm that made it to the finishing line, you were denied the privilege of “Aur dikhao, aur dikhao” before settling for the perfect egg.

Of course, star kids get big banners, bigger launches, a dream debut, and multiple chances at failing. Of course, you’re in deep consternation when you see an Arjun Kapoor and mumble, “Iss saale ko hero kisne banaya?” And it certainly does not stop your outrage from gushing out of your ears and nostrils. Yet another star kid cashes in on her father’s demi-godlike status and makes it to the cover of Vogue. Oh my god, what a travesty of justice!

If Vogue were to put you or me on their cover because they want to earn brownie points for political correctness, even the raddiwala would refuse to touch it.

Umm, sorry to break your bubble, but it is not. Magazines and movies are business enterprises that need to make money so that they can continue to remain in business. Newspapers need ads to survive. Glamour magazines need famous millionaire kids – and the controversies that they will spawn – to sell copies. A producer needs famous names in his star cast to sell his movie.  

If Vogue were to put you or me on their cover because they want to earn brownie points for political correctness, even the raddiwala would refuse to touch it. True, there are movies that cater to star-stuck audiences. But ultimately, it is up to us to make them famous and successful.

Kylie Jenner makes a million USD per sponsored Instagram post because it is us who are falling over each other to follow her. We are the ones who obsessively follow Suhana Khan’s #AirportLook and Taimur making a fart face. We’re interested in them solely because we’re interested in the minutiae of the lives of their parents. Even Arjun Kapoor has 7.9 million followers on Instagram.   

Admit it, you’d rather follow Kylie on Instagram than, say, an Aham Bhumika who has been working tirelessly for the upliftment of tribals. So if glamour sells, don’t blame the glamorous. Blame yourself.

Anyway, I also found out that you were massively upset because Suhana Khan talks about her “struggles” as a star kid in the interview. The girl who holidays in Monaco, travels first class, lives in a bungalow with 60 rooms and 170 attendants in tow, has the audacity to claim her suffer was far from suhana. Wow.

What does she know about the struggle of finding the right pair of killer heels at a Zara sale while wading through a sea of women who behave like predatory sharks! The heartbreak of discovering those killer heels are meant to kill you instead, as you wait in a queue in them at Starbucks for your iced latte with soy milk and no sugar. Couple that with the frustration of discovering that your phone is about to die. Your ire reaches Qutub Minar levels when you can’t find your damn charger in your handbag that can easily fit in a Thai cave.


But you are a fighter and don’t give up easily. So even when your iPhone’s battery is at 11 per cent you manage to post: “Ugh, Suhana is such an entitled brat,” before sinking on the couch with relief.

Bhaiyya, AC nahin chal raha kya? God, it’s so hot.