The unknown world of Varsha Bhosle

Unnervingly telephatic perhaps, I had called Varsha Bhosle on Monday morning after losing touch for over a year. I only had her landline number since she had an aversion to cellphones, or so she said. The phone kept ringing. Reportedly, she had shot herself on Sunday night. Gone.

Last, I had seen her at the home of photographer Gautam Rajadhyaksha, where his body had been placed to rest before the cremation rites. Varsha was composed. Regretfully, she had said, “Gautiya was overworking. I’d tell him to chill but he wasn’t the sort to listen to anyone.” Neither was Varsha who had sat in on one of the many interviews I have conducted with her mother, Asha Bhosle, interrupting only to grouse, “How long will you keep on yakking?” Lunch was ready, she wouldn’t wait for us to come to the table.
Given to laughing uproariously, Varsha had made an instant connect, agreeing to write occasionally for a magazine I was editing. She would write her impressions on film actors — only international ones — since she didn’t want to step on any toes of the B-town personalities. “I can’t be politically correct,” she maintained. “Even if I write on our film people, you won’t be able to print my rants.” No raves? I asked. “Maybe, maybe. Lekin jaane do.” Among the several stars she profiled, the one on Ralph Fiennes was quintessentially Varshaeque. Since she had adored him in Saving Private Ryan, she didn’t mince words, describing him as her lust object.
Parts of the article had to be toned down after which she quit writing those profiles, arguing, “If I’m not fit to print, that’s okay. I don’t want a single sentence cut.” That was the end of our professional but not personal friendship. Over the decades, she would plan an evening of wine and conversation, but that was not even thinkable at the Prabhu Kunj residence. “No alcohol out here,” she would chortle. “Aai would freak out.”
Wine we never shared. Conversations yes. Her attention span would be short, especially when the Mangeshkar hegemony over music cropped up. She idolised her mother, would chat about her aunt Lata Mangeshkar respectfully — but whenever she veered towards criticism, she would stop mid-sentence. Asha Bhosle has always felt short-changed of being denied the song Ae mere watan ke logo, which was meant to be sung by her, but was eventually rendered by her didi. “Yeah, yeah… it’s between them. What does that have to do with me?” Varsha would snap, eschewing any more comments on the subject, even if she had initiated the topic.
But naturally, living under the shadow of a legendary mother must have had its deleterious effects. Unlike most celebrity children she was more than aware that comparisons are endemic. Neither did she take to the notion of being “promoted” nor “recommended”. At her forthrightness, Asha Bhosle would say fondly, “She’s a gifted singer but lazy. She sits at home just reading, writing… and sleeping.” According to veteran music composer Vanraj Bhatia, her mother had suggested that Varsha should be assigned a song from Shyam Benegal’s Manthan. But the reluctant Varsha ensured that she muffed up at the audition.
On Smita Patil’s request, writer-director Sai Paranjpye had built in a role for Varsha in Mahesh Elkunchwar’s play Vasanakand. This required her to sing “live” on the stage. “She was outstanding,” Paranjpye recalls, besides disclosing a telling incident. Paranjpye was in an elevator at a song recording studio when Asha Bhosle entered, recognised the director and introduced herself as Varsha’s mother. “From one mother to another,” Paranjpye states, “That was such a wonderful, moving moment.”
I did encounter Hemant Kenkare, Varsha’s congenial-natured husband, at the Prabha Kunj apartment, after their separation. The two didn’t speak much. Neither did they display any inimical vibes. Perhaps, she just wasn’t the marrying kind, restless enough to take off to the US for an extended stay. Her return was inevitable. She belonged in the folds of the Mangeshkar family, but perhaps was far too sensitive to be a silent onlooker. Dwelling on the fringes wasn’t for her.
In an article for Gentleman magazine, she had alluded frankly to the physical abuse on Asha Bhosle by her father, rough images embedded within her from her waking memories as a child. Freudian theories would unlock the memories as the reasons behind Varsha’s three suicide attempts and her final successful one. If you ask me though, her passing away at the age of 56 can be sourced far more accurately in her refusal to conform to a way of ordained life and thought. She sought to triumph over her state, constantly. It’s tragic that her final hurrah had to be a gunshot.
She spoke her mind and heart out through her columns on a variety of platforms, the last one being Internet sites. Her views were unapologetically Right-wing, albeit unaffiliated to any political party. At times, Gautam Rajadhyaksha balks, “My God, have you read what she wrote?” and pointed out that they had strong differences. For months, if not years, they wouldn’t be on talking terms. “She’s a child,” her friend would shake his head. “We get into terrible arguments over everything, not only her columns… but we can’t live without each other either. You can’t be angry with Varsha for long.”
When Fiza, the first film written and directed by me, opened, she wrote a damning review of it vis-à-vis its Muslim standpoint. I wasn’t surprised. She was entitled to her take, which was way more valid than the carbon fumes emitted by Subhash Ghai in his review. Moreover, I still treasure her words on the characterisation of Fiza, unafraid to take on an acid-attack threat from the lumpen elements. That scene she had applauded unconditionally. I needed to ask her why she singled out that sequence. Didn’t it have relevance to the entire film? Something tells me, she would have responded with, “Oh forget it! That was written so long ago. But let me tell you I’ll always have major issues with Fiza.”
No regrets about that at all. Still there will be one abiding regret — if I had phoned a day earlier, perhaps Varsha Bhosle would have been there to laugh, “Where have you been? I’m still waiting to go dining-wining. And I’ll pay.” She always insisted on that.

The writer is a journalist, film critic and film director