No one rejects Rajinikanth, incontestably India’s No. I superstar. Now, trust Ma’am Re to nix an offer no one else would have had the audacity to refuse. The far more market-seductive Deepika Padukone and Vidya Balan will be seen in the Chennai supremo’s next project Rana. Not Rekha. She would rather stay in the solitary splendour of her sea-facing home in Mumbai. No men are allowed beyond the gates “except one”, she insists, the allusion being to you-know-who.

She isn’t open to offers of anchoring an Oprah Winfrey-style chat show or considering stage plays which would tap her dramatic intensity. Neither is she willing to associate her face with consumer product endorsements, or zip off for world concert tours where NRIs go crazy over her vintage Umrao Jaan mujra numbers.
Like it or not, the 56-year-old, still stunningly beautiful Rekha is sashaying — stubbornly — towards that dreaded Sunset Boulevard. Okay, so far, she has not yet uttered that Greta Garbo line, “I want to be alone” but has acquired a Garboesque persona, perhaps a smartly cultivated though self-defeating move to preserve the Rekha mystique.You only live once, Ma’am Re, or didn’t you know?
About the only time she is seen in public are at the film award ceremonies, bedecked in her signature Kanjeevaram saris or for variation, a black Manhattan chic ensemble. And infallibly, she is accompanied by her loyal secretary Farzana Khan.
In fact, nothing changes for Rekha seen ever since 1970 in over 180 films. She could still be hyperactive. Strong women-centric scripts could revolve around her. For her re-invention is a finger-snap away. After all, viewers still crave to see her more than any other actress who’s crossed the age of 50, be it Dimple Kapadia, Shabana Azmi or Jaya Bachchan.
Now it was the world’s most celebrated critic, Kenneth Tynan, who once said that what most men see in women when they’re punch drunk, they see in Greta Garbo when they’re stone-cold sober. I haven’t had to resort to such a Devdasian dilemma of getting boozed out, but it’s been pretty close. To interview her over the decades has been like a chess game, she’s out on Mission Checkmate.
Anyway, why am I getting into a salaam-e-Rekha mood today? First, just because. And second, because of sheer nostalgia. Think of the days that were and I flashback to the 1960s to the ’80s when movies were simple ‘n’ saucy — when film celebrities exuded a certain degree of hauteur instead of becoming eyesores on Page 3. To synopsise my star-journo interactions with Rekha, I’ll reduce my 50 or so confabs with her to the four most reprentative ones.
Encounter No.1: She isn’t talking to the press, which was quite a voguish thing for Bollywoodians to do back in the 1980s. She was shooting in Bengaluru for Utsav, I was there to cover it, courtesy Shashi and Jennifer Kapoor. “Will she talk?” I quizzed before landing in beer pub country (now, of course it’s IT). The shoot was at Ramanagram, on the Bengaluru outskirts, where Sholay was filmed. She didn’t look at me, neither did I, pretending to be more interested in the life and times of the then newcomer Shekhar Suman... shudder, the things I’ve done!
On summoning up enough courage to stammer, “Ww..will you talk to me?” Ma’am Re smiled like royalty, “Kyon nahin? Baat karenge.” This was over a noodle dinner in a Chinese restaurant. Next morning, scrubbed and shampooed I landed in her hotel suite, trying to trip her, bait her, ensnare her about talking about the magnificent obsession of her life. No free dinner for guessing WHO, right?
She darted veiled statements, which she continues to do to this day and age. And there’s a confession. I used all the tricks in the book to get sensational copy. She was wise to my game, went so far no further. Fair enough, like a silent movie making its transition to sound, she had talked, at least.
Encounter 2: This was for a photo shoot in Lake District, Manchester, UK. Ahem, ahem, Rekha, lieutenant Farzana K, photographer Ashok Salian and I were there. Ashok laughed as if there were no tomorrow (he still does), Farzana was the cool ‘n’ collected one. Ma’am was busy selecting the right costumes for the right locations (like a flowing scarf for a cliffside, a polo neck for a coffee shop). For three days, it was click, click, click, click. If we talked at all, it must have been about costumes. I came away feeling as knowledgeable about fabrics, silhouettes and cuts as Bhanu Athaiya.
Encounter 3: This was for a script reading session. I read out my script to her, a talent which is as strange to me as French and Latin are to Subhash Ghai. It was a story of a woman lawyer. I gulped, sweated, sobbed somehow to the end of the 200-pager. I wanted her to play the lead. At the end of the three-hour session, there was pin drop silence. Farzana looked at me expressionlessly. Doggy Shiva woofed, I looked for reaction. More silence and then the verdict, “When are we doing it? We have a lot of work to do — decide on the look, details of the character and so on.”
Wow, she had said yes without saying yes. I was in blissland. But then life has its ajeeb mods. I didn’t have the guts to quit my desk job, I was back on the interview beat. Meaning I got myself a job as a journalist once again. The rest, as they say, isn’t history.
Encounter 4: This was the last phone call about three years ago. After that, she hasn’t called, neither have I. I’d approached her to once again enact the role of a Rajmata which she had essayed with perfection in Zubeidaa. The call was for its sequel titled Rutba. Ma’m quoted a price that’s equivalent to the film’s entire budget. I balked but there were no hard feelings. Correctly, she reasoned, “Why should the producer gain advantage of the regard we have for each other? Perhaps we will produce it together some day… inshallah.”
As it happened, the project was placed on the back-burner, owing to creative differences with the sequel’s producer. Just as well perhaps. ‘Cause I can see no one else reprising the role of the elegant, independent-minded Rajmata.
We’ve talked periodically about doing a book. Snag: She will not speak about her private life. Now is a biography possible with a tomb-like silence on the many downers and uppers in her life? Rekha is mysterious. Or is she? Like all of us, she clutches some secrets in her diary to her heart. No trespassing allowed... on her boulevard.