SMITA PATIL: My Screen Goddess

It is Smita Patil's 51st birthday today. Of course she is not around to celebrate the occasion. She hasn't been, for the last 19 years. And yet, she seems like a presence that lingers on – refusing to vacate our minds and hearts – prodding us to remember milestones that no longer mean anything to her. Her death, perhaps the most tragic blow to Hindi cinema since Madhubala's untimely demise, was a significant punctuation mark in my life.

I have watched her films over and over again, ever since, to try and rationalise my obsession. But when it comes to Smita, reason fails. I have seen her friends speak with feeling about their loss. I have watched people get moist-eyed talking about her, recalling memories frozen in time – filmmakers who worked with her and were mesmerised, not just by her extraordinary talent, but her characteristic simplicity; co-stars who became intimate friends; journalists who could see how different she was from her contemporaries and were charmed by her uninhibited personality.

I became a film journalist exactly 10 years after she died. And so, while I had an opportunity to interact with the who's who of Hindi cinema, I couldn't meet the one person that really mattered. But I do meet her every now and then, don't I? Recently I re-visited 'Bhumika' and 'Umbartha', 'Arth' a little before that, 'Mirch Masala' and 'Ardh Satya' a while ago, 'Jait Re Jait' and 'Chakra' several years earlier. She was her usual intense self – her smouldering eyes piercing the screen, staring straight back at me.

'Umbartha' is a personal favourite. I believe it was a film close to her heart too. Sulabha, the film's protagonist, is a truly modern woman. She takes the audacious decision of leaving her daughter with her childless sister-in-law, to accept a job as the superintendent of a women’s reform home in a faraway place. Her decision could be perceived as very 'non-maternal' and irresponsible, particularly in a culture like ours. I consider it an act of courage, because she is walking away from a seemingly secure life to take on the challenge of working amidst women who have been discarded by society. Most women in her place would have got weighed down by guilt and by the fear of an uncertain future. Perhaps she too carries this burden within her. But when she realises that her husband and daughter don’t need her anymore, she accepts their alienation and packs her bags to embark on another uncertain journey. Sulabha is a woman who acts upon her conviction and pays the price she must, to realise her true self. A little like Smita herself....

Or, like Usha in 'Bhumika' – another woman in search of her identity. Usha is a consummate actress, a tragic heroine whose reel and real lives keep blurring into each other. Like many actresses in Hindi cinema, her troubled personal life lies buried under the persona of the larger-than-life screen goddess. Once again, Usha must abandon the conventional framework of marriage and family to find her self, and risk many failures along the journey.

Kavita in 'Arth', on the other hand, is too weighed down by her own insecurities to be free. The games her mind plays with her start weighing on her relationship with her lover and her fragile psyche cannot cope with the guilt of being a home-breaker. I rate 'Arth' among Smita's best performances – playing a schizophrenic actress without going overboard would have been a serious challenge and she met it with enough mettle to make the audience sympathise with her.

Another memorable role was that of Sonbai in 'Mirch Masala'. Sonbai is a fiery young woman in 19th century rural Gujarat who knows her mind and is capable of fending off the advances of the lecherous 'subedar', who chases her relentlessly, first as a sport and then to bolster his bruised ego after being snubbed by her. Smita brought tremendous passion and dignity to Sonbai's doggedness. Sadly, she didn't live to see 'Mirch Masala' on screen.

One doesn't just remember the Smita of these acclaimed films and several others in the same league. But of her mainstream adventures too. I cringed as she danced in the rain with Amitabh Bachchan in 'Namak Halal', and almost wished that song away. Or even that silly 'item number' in 'Sharaabi', once again with Bachchan – and wondered what she thought when she saw herself doing things that she obviously couldn't carry off with ease.

I remember dragging my grandmother to Bandra Talkies to watch 'Aakhir Kyon?' -- one of her few roles in popular cinema I thoroughly enjoyed. Or sitting in the first row of the Plaza stalls with my favourite uncle, craning my neck up to watch a disastrous film called 'Nazraana'. And the time when we went to Chitra talkies to see 'Jawab', and to Shaan for 'Waaris' a film that released months after her death.

Back then, as a schoolgirl, I had her poster on my bedroom wall. Like a true fan, I collected every scrap that was printed about her, stuck her photographs in a big brown book, and once, even called her up and spoke to her.

I was 14 when Smita Patil died. The night before she passed away, I stood before our little temple box in the kitchen and fervently asked god (I don't recall which one) to save her life. I haven't prayed ever since.

Deepa Gumaste