Shove off Saifeena and Abhi-Ash, with your relentless, pouting narcissism and marketed excess, it’s now Hail Deepika, Angelina be thy name. After a decade of a Posh and Becks style simulated celebrityhood—of endorsements, luxury branding, manic shopping, P3 partying, splashy holidaying—it’s now about celebrity agony, Jolie style. In a televised and viral fervid week, Deepika Padukone has declared to the world her depression, despondency, despair; how she overcame it with the support of family, counsellor and psychiatrist (her mother and medical team were present on the televised interview); then came the Vogue Empowerment series, My Choice, where the actress and 98 women boom in and out of the two minute video to the beat of ‘feminist’ rap, of the right to choose, to have sex before or after marriage, or no sex at all; to marry or not; to be size zero or 15 etc. An in your face, 2-minute instant video rebellion. Until the reactions came.