I hesitate to enter the open doorway before me. Surely no one could be living here. The walls are bare, the rooms bereft of furniture, clothes lie strewn all over the floor. A door on the right leads to the kitchen, in which I can see only a gas stove. A meal couldn’t have been cooked here in months. As I move warily into the living room, my escort addresses a figure on the four-seater sofa that has obviously seen better days. “There’s someone to meet you.”
The face that looks at me is familiar. But a far cry from the Sulakshana Pandit I knew, a woman who loved piling on the make-up, the clothes, the jewellery. The woman in front of me is dressed in a faded nightie teamed with a salwar, her neck weighed down by a massive brass figurine of Balaji hanging on a nada.
The one thing that’s intact about Sulakshana is her complexion. She may well have just stepped out of the beauty parlour after an expensive facial. Her glazed eyes try to focus on the unaccustomed sight of a visitor and when I introduce myself, she excuses herself to freshen up.
I look around the living room. It is a large one by Mumbai standards two flats have been combined to make up one comprising around 2000 square feet. Parts of the false ceiling have given way. There are no lights or fans. A wall unit stands, bare. A huge Ganpati calendar is stuck on the wall near a window that opens onto the sea. Returning, Sulakshana leads me to a smaller room.
Here, too, pieces of cloth lie scattered on the floor. A wall cupboard has obviously been removed from the room, but a full-length mirror still dominates a wall. She promptly heads for it to check her face. And then gestures me to sit down on the floor for a chat.
“How I wish I’d won some prestigious awards so that film-makers and music directors would know that I’m still around,” she sighs. “Somehow, I stopped getting work quite some time ago. But people still tell me that I have a good voice and that I should return to playback singing.
“Whenever I’m alone, I go to my shack on the beach and sing with my harmonium or tanpura. I know I can no longer return to lead roles in Hindi films but my voice is still good.”
In her days, Sulakshana acted in over 50 films with the top heroes and banners of the time. She sang most of her own songs and, apart from the solos, had the opportunity to sing with Lata Mangeshkar, Mohammed Rafi, Mukesh and Manna Dey.
She longs to sing again. “I’d feel highly obliged if my brothers (composers Jatin-Lalit), Anu Malik or AR Rahman gave me a chance,” she says softly. “My brothers feel I’m not big enough a name today. I agree that they needed to work with well-established singers like Kavita Krishnamoorthy and Alka Yagnik when they were just starting out and needed to find a foothold in showbiz. But once they’d done that, they could have given me some songs to sing. Lataji is still going strong at 70-plus. I’m only 40-plus. If they’d helped me out, I wouldn’t be in the situation I’m in today. But I’m glad that the singers my brothers have worked with have brought them popularity.”
She then recalls the day Jatin had come over to show her his new car. “He asked me whether I’d like to keep it. Of course I couldn’t. As it is, I hardly go out. He needs it more. I love Jatin, he’s the son I never had,” she smiles faintly.
And says in an aside, “I wish they’d been given Devdas to score. They would have been ideal since we belong to Kolkata and they have the necessary classical background.”
A long pause. Then, tears welling up, she gasps, “I’ve been very upset ever since my mother passed away three years ago. A very spiritual lady, she was the one who provided me with strong moral support all through my life. I know it’s said that I’m pagal. Well. Dil to pagal hai hi. By the grace of God. I’m okay. There’s been no one to look after me since. Zindagi veerana ho gayee hai.”
Wiping her eyes, she continues, “I know it’s said that I’m pagal but that’s not true. Music is constantly on my lips. And like so many other singers, I use my hands freely while singing. Is that pagalpan? Well, dil to pagal hai hi. Those who call me insane are just jealous of me. By the grace of God, I’m okay.”
Sitting up suddenly, she says with a determined look, “It was from my mother that I learnt never to give up. Even after my father left us, she single-handedly brought up the seven of us three brothers and four sisters. I looked after my brothers and sisters, I did whatever my mother asked me to do for them, no questions asked. But I’m not God, I’m just a human being. I’ve learnt that helping your family is fine but that you have to think of yourself and your last days too.”
For now, she has her elder sister, Maya, and her 20-year-old nephew Varun living with her. She tells me pointedly, “But I haven’t asked anyone for money. Roti-dal to kha hi leti hoon. I’ve done a lot for others. I’m confident that when I die, my brothers and sisters from the film industry will mourn me. The colleagues I worked with were always nice to me, they respected me. In fact, they’re upset that I no longer have a car or even a telephone. But I’m above such material things.”
How does she manage to survive? By Sulakshana’s account, Jatin and Lalit give her some money every month. Her sisters Vijayeta and Sandhya help, too. Vijayeta provides the rations and visits her, while Sandhya pays her electricity bill, she says.
Tears flood her eyes yet again as she veers off into a memory and confides: “I loved Sanjeev Kumar so much. He was so nice. He’d given me a set made with yellow sapphires. But he spoiled my life. One day, after his bypass operation, we had gone to a Hanuman mandir in Delhi. I told him that I loved him and asked him to put Sindoor in my parting. I told him to marry me so that I could look after him. But he refused, saying that he could never forget his first love, Hema Malini. He used to cry for her. His death shattered me.”
She reflects, “Life is so short. Why fight? Each one of us has to go some day. What do you get by hurting others? Why get intoyeh tera hai, yeh mera hai? Iske saath kaam karo, uske saath nahin. Why such politics? That’s a dirty game. Keep away from it.”
Music is her only solace, she says. Whenever reality gets too much to bear, she sings herself a song from Hum Dono; she calls it the song of her life:
Mein Zindagi ka saath nibhata chala gaya
Har fikra ko dhuen mein udata chala gaya
Barbadiyon ka sog manana fizul tha
Barbadiyon ka jashna manata chala gaya
Jo mil gaya ussiko muqaddar samajh liya
Jo kho gaya main usko bhulata chala gaya
Gham aur khushi meinfarqa na mehsus ho jahan
Mein dil ko us maqaam pe laata chala gaya…
Her song plays in my mind as I prepare to make my exit. She waits with me for the lift. “It was nice speaking to you,” she smiles. “Dil halka hua.”
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