Some years ago the newsmagazine I worked for at the time sent me to the dusty hinterland of Rajasthan to follow Vasundhara Raje Scindia on her campaign trail to win the hearts and minds of the people of Jhalawar for the forthcoming Lok Sabha elections. No doubt her oratorical skills were at high tide, just like her late brother Madhav Rao Scindia. Well, perhaps, his eloquently chosen words came forth with more of a tsunami force. But unlike the former Maharaja of Gwalior who was attired in the Congress party uniform of white khadi, she, at the other end of the political spectrum (the BJP), was swathed in a frothy chiffon sari. I’ll never forget the image of her with her shiny Rapunzel tresses swaying beneath the translucent pallav she had covered her head with – de rigueur with desi royalty –trailing wafts of heady perfume: was it Paloma Picasso?

No, indeed, the present chief minister of Rajasthan was not playing commoner. When I suggested that her French chiffon sari and sunglasses might alienate her from her impoverished electorate, she emphatically said that it would have precisely the opposite effect. It had to do with aspirations. The women in their bright but well-worn clothes would actually prefer to be like her (reach for the stars in other words) than have her try to imitate them. Not only were the women smart enough to see through masquerades, Vasundhara Raje (Vasu to her friends) had cottoned on to the fact that beauty (call it being feminine if you like) and power were not incompatible. Au contraire. Needless to say she was elected, and continued to be so.

Take Mrs Gandhi, senior. Her walk was brisk, her manner could be abrupt and the mildest of rebukes would send many a stalwart, even macho Congressman or politician of other political colours, running for cover. Yet, her pedicured, pert toes peeped out from under elegant saris and that trademark white streak of hair indicated a nod to an idiosyncratic aesthetic. And, yes, did she know how to turn on the charm, both at home and on the world’s stage. Or, as effortlessly, switch to the role of doting grandmother. Today, her daughter-in-law and inheritor of her mantle, Sonia Gandhi wears her power as an unobtrusive accessory, choosing to retreat into a deafening silence rather than raise her voice. Yet, many of her party men still run scared. And never is her apparel dowdy or off-colour. Delhi’s chief minister Sheila Dikshit has, despite her air of no-nonsense briskness – she walks even faster than Indira Gandhi did – reserves of charm, when she wants to summon them.

Lung power
Many of our capital ladies know all about the need for balance. Silk and steel is a deadly combo employed to great effect by them, whether it is Renuka Chowdhury, Ambika Soni or Jaya Bachchan. But we are entering a phase that calls for more lung power, especially in the rather volatile environment of Delhi’s corridors of power. While Dikshit deftly hangs on to her kursi in Delhi’s legislative assembly, the city’s new Mayor, Arti Mehra, will need to flex more muscle to steer her way through the rough and tumble of the municipal council, where crying-hoarse power might prove more useful. There is as well a growing tribe of women politicians who are not to the manor born or married, or indeed those who acquired it through Bollywood. The true grit types like Mayawati and Mamta Banerjee, whose rabble-rousing abilities have catapulted them up slippery political ladders, are perhaps the future. Their rise has nothing to do with dynasty.