Beauty spot waltzing over her cherry-lipsticked lips. That was enough to make me go knock-kneed. In a black lacey ensemble at Mumbai’s Filmistan studio, she was practising one of those hup-one-two-three-hup dance steps with Amitabh Bachchan.

And when her PR guy, Gopal Pandey, ushered her towards me, I saw the moon, stars, and assorted obelisks. This woman was seriously beautiful. She wanted to ‘clarify’ that she wasn’t twirling around Srikant Nahata, a puckish already married film financier. Pandey had doled out morose facial expressions to suggest that she was being vilified, that she was no homebreaker. He was so convincing about her being as pure as driven snow that my eyes were bubbling with tears.
And then she did a surprise item number. Parachuting into a cane chair, crossing her legs with Sharon Stonesque chic, flinting sparks of defiance, she said firmly, “Yes, I am seeing Srikantji. You can cross-check with him.” Huh, this was a Devil-may-care Prada. She wasn’t denying the liaison, in fact she appeared pretty gung-ha-ha about it, she was boss. Pandey ulped, gulped. End of story.
So why am I raking up an ancient history romance, which went on to culminate in a marriage it seems? The aforecited Srikantji wasn’t hauled up for bigamy. Cool, love and let love. I’m reeling back to JP simply because I found myself a DVD of K. Vishwanath’s Sagar Sangamam, in which she matched dramatic and dancing skills with Kamal Haasan who was in top form those days. Hers was an astonishingly sculpted face, a lithe body, a smile to faint for, nuanced acting dynamics. Omigawd, has this 49-year-old actress nee Lalita Rani been underestimated over the decades, or what?
All the pros and cons considered, Jaya Prada could have been a candidate for the all-time Hall of Fame. Alas, somewhere along the line, she blew it. Her arch-rival, Sridevi, had a flair for comedy which she lacked majorly. More crucially, Sridevi anchored herself in Mumbai where the action was. By the time JP got herself an apartment in Juhu, it was much too late. The marriage to Nahata, her diversion towards politics, and roles which were comme ci com ca, eroded her stardom. Plus, sporadic scandals like a man from her ‘native place’ Rajahmundry claiming to be her lawfully wedded husband, took their toll. A pity.
The beauty was beset by beastly times, occasionally redeemed by Bachchan serenading her with the chartbusting Gori hain kalaiyan in Aaj ka Arjun. Sridevi had abdicated to Madhuri Dixit. Karisma Kapoor, Manisha Koirala and Raveena Tandon were amassing strong fan bases. Jaya Prada no longer flashmatazzed in the glamour magazines, she was relegated to the inside pages of newspapers, reporting her moves as a politico who wasn’t beyond shifting allegiance. Last stop: Samajwadi Party.
This is not the Jaya Prada I met. She wasn’t even the testy actress who was put off by my friend’s Hasselblad camera. Since it wasn’t a Nikon she was accustomed to, she shooed the photographer, “No, no, please, your camera’s too mamooli. Photos will not look glam.” Funneeee.
Neither is she the smiling actress who met me in her Hyderabad office, where I’d gone to ask her to act in a film, featuring her as a newcomer’s mother. “No, no, please,” she resonated. “No mummy roles. Can I be the boy’s sister, please?” Sweet, an undertandable streak of vanity.
A DVD viewing of Sagar Sangamam affirms that she looks gorgeous enacting the part of an old woman, silver-haired and cosmetic-free. She has a spine-strong body language. And you approve of her berating a superstar actor for abandoning Amar Singh when he’s down and out. See, she’s still defiant.
I wouldn’t say she’s an amazing actress or anything hyperbolic as that. I’d just say that she had what it takes, but her Bollywood filmograpy will remain a case of arrested development.
Lastly, I wish JP wouldn’t tint her hair the shade of a dry carrot. Just re-see Sagar Sangaman, no one’s ever looked so wondrous in silver hair and no cosmetics. Drool, those were the daze.