Last month, on December 13, her 27th death anniversary went by practically unnoticed. She is enshrined in the public memory, though, as one of the best actresses ever of Indian cinema. A personal friend ever since we were in St Xavier’s college, it was more than apparent that she would be a star, even though she was extremely shy and retentive.
Smita Patil, who passed away at the age of 31 following childbirth complications, was a reluctant star but once in the epicentre of cinema, it was her calling to excel, despite vituperative competition. And she did, although I can’t help feeling that she was restless and aspired to lead a “normal life” once she became a mother. Perhaps she would have quit acting, perhaps she would have returned to the studios after a few years.
On meeting up recently with her elder sister, Manya Patil, it was quite clear that Smita, fondly called Smee, was constantly striving to adapt to the pressures of Bollywood’s hyper-commercial system. “If she had restricted herself to the Shyam Benegal school of cinema, chances are that Smee would have been alive today,” agreed Manya, qualifying the regret with, “But she had been accepted in the big-budget films. And our family’s credo is such that one has to do one’s best.”
Smita’s parents have been strongly socialist in their ideology. It was her upbringing that made her identify closely with the characters she portrayed in off-mainstream cinema. Benegal, who saw her reading the news on Doordarshan, introduced her in the children’s film Charandas Chor. Subsequently, Benegal showcased her in Bhumika and Manthan, besides important supporting roles in Nishant and Mandi.
Smita became a favourite of the formula-bashing cinema, acting in a series of cause-centric films, be it Govind Nihalani’s Aakrosh and Ardh Satya, Rabindra Dharmaraj’s Chakra, Aravindan’s Chidambaram, Jabbar Patel’s Umbartha and Ketan Mehta’s Bhavni Bhavai or Mirch Masala.
Some leaders of the Mumbai film industry, who had come down heavily on her bathing scene under a slum tapwater in Chakra, had to eat their words and sought to cast her in their fantasy blockbusters. “Initially, Smee was unsure of stepping into that area,” Manya rewinds. “In fact, our mother wasn’t very pleased with the rainwater dance, Aaj rapatt jaiyo in Namak Halaal. But then she reminded our parents that through the big films she was reaching out to a larger audience-base. She wasn’t thrilled with that dance, but she wasn’t embarrassed about it either.”
According to Manya, her sister would have been proud that her son is an actor today. “Prateik is finding his feet,” she remarks. “When a director cares for her actors and guides them, like Kiran Rao did with Dhobi Ghat, he’s excellent. But yes, Prateik must decide what he has to do, and like his mother give it his best shot.”
Incidentally, Manya has been striving to build an archive of material associated with Smita Patil. She has a collection of her photographs and assorted memorabilia, but needs much more. “I know there’s so much more content about her out there, particularly in the language press, which I haven’t been able to access. I have also been talking to photographers to add to the archive. If you have any articles and interviews with her, please help me in preserving them.”
Smita was incorrigibly vulnerable and outspoken about inner anxieties. For a Filmfare cover story, she had spoken frankly to me about her need to get away from spotlight. This she would do by just packing a bag and a camera, like she had done once to photograph women at work in Rajasthan’s desert stretches. Not exactly a Bollywood thing to do. In addition, she had criticised the male chauvinism dominant in the filmmaking establishment.
When the story appeared, Smita went silent. There was no reaction. A common friend explained, “She expected you to exercise your judgment on what to reveal and what to keep off the record. Yes, she is upset.” Months later when I met Smita at a studio set, where she was enacting the archetypal role of a courtesan with a heart of gold, she didn’t reveal any rancour except to laugh, “It’s okay, memories are short. No one remembers interviews beyond a week or two. And it hasn’t caused me any damage.”
That was Smita Patil, a friend and an actress. But somewhere down the line, show-business satraps and even her friends, like myself, didn’t realise how fragile she was. The drawing room of her apartment close to the Bandra oceanfront, where I met Manya, is dominated by a collage of Smee’s photographs, signed with messages from her co-stars ranging from Naseeruddin Shah and Om Puri to Amitabh Bachchan. Apart from that, there’s a palpable emptiness.

The writer is a journalist, film critic and film director