‘She taught us that acting wasn’t something people did because they couldn’t do anything else. It was a skill. A skill that needed to be constantly polished and shaped, and the respect you command with that.’
Key Points
- ‘Even before I entered theatre, she had already transformed Marathi theatre alongside Vijay Tendulkar, Arvind Deshpande, Dr Shriram Lagoo and so many other greats. What a body of work they created!’
- ‘She gave Marathi theatre a completely new language, which was realistic. Before that, theatre was largely musicals, historical plays and a little bit of melodrama. With Bai’s productions, the characters became the heart of the play.’
- ‘The purity with which she created art, directed plays and lived her life was also reflected in the way she left it. She passed away with that same grace.’
Neena Kulkarni first met theatre legend Vijaya Mehta when she was a teenager. Over the next five decades, that professional association grew into a relationship that extended far beyond theatre.
For Kulkarni, ‘Bai’, as she fondly called her, was never just an acclaimed theatre director. She became a teacher, collaborator, friend and, in many ways, her family.
“I don’t think summing her up will ever happen in my life. She will always be there, because she has given me something that’s going to remain with me till the end of my life,” Kulkarni tells Mayur Sanap/Rediff as she opens up on personal void left behind by Vijaya Mehta’s passing.
How did you process the news of Vijaya Bai’s passing?
I was at home. Fortunately, I didn’t have a performance that day.
I always feared that I would receive the news while I was performing because I often keep my phone away before going on stage.
I knew she was growing older, and I dreaded the day that call would come. Not because I had to rush anywhere, but because I wondered how I would accept it.
But perhaps she cared for me so much that even her timing was perfect.
She passed away one night at around 10.
I was among the first ones Anahita (Uberoi, Vijaya Mehta’s daughter) called. I informed Bharati (Achrekar) and the others.
We didn’t want the news reaching the press immediately. But they got to know. My phone kept ringing through the night, but I didn’t answer a single call.
It creates a void. For me, the first thought was that I had once again lost a mother. My mother passed away a few years ago.
It wasn’t simply about losing another mother. A mother is someone who protects you unconditionally.
For me, Bai was that.
She protected the art in me.
She protected the actor in me.
She protected the person in me.
That is very rare to find.
I’m glad she went without much suffering.
The purity with which she created art, directed plays and lived her life was also reflected in the way she left it. She passed away with that same grace.
Was it heartbreaking to see her health decline in the last few years?
You know, it happened very gradually. She wasn’t suffering from any major illness. She simply grew old.
Perhaps the last few days were a little difficult, but she never had to be admitted to a hospital.
Again, I have to give credit to Anahita, (sons) Deven (Khote) and Ravi (Khote). She lost (husband) Farroukh (Mehta) three years before she passed away. The way they looked after her was remarkable.
After Farroukh’s passing, I started visiting her even more often. She missed him till the very end.
The way she went, I wish all of us could go like that. Naturally.
She ate whatever she wanted till the very end.
She enjoyed her ice cream till the end.
She ate her eggs till the end.
There was no prolonged illness. No endless medication.
You have known Vijaya Bai for years. Looking back, how do you remember that journey?
I am 71 now; I met her when I was around 15 or 16. So you can imagine! It’s been a very long association, and a very fruitful one.
For her, the people she chose to work with became her family.
That’s what happened in our case, especially with Bharati (Achrekar), Nana (Patekar) and me. Vikram (Gokhale) was also very close so was Suhas (Joshi).
I was fortunate enough to work with her in three consecutive plays. That happened over a period of about eight or nine years because each play would run for three or four years. Later, I acted in her television film Hamidabaichi Kothi with the same cast, although we had all grown older.
I assisted her during Pestonjee and later during three of the workshops she conducted over the years.
She was very focused, extremely knowledgeable and very innovative. Quite simply, she had brilliance.
She gave Marathi theatre a completely new language, which was realistic. Before that, theatre was largely musicals, historical plays and a little bit of melodrama. With Bai’s productions, the characters became the heart of the play.
Whether it was Barrister or Hamidabaichi Kothi, which on paper was about a kotha, but she toned everything down and trusted the writing. The writers trusted her too, whether it was Jaywant Dalvi or Anil Barve.
What was she like as a person during the years you worked with her?
In Marathi, there’s this thing called ‘Zapatlela Jhaad‘. It means a tree which is so, so engrossed that it does its own things.
She was deeply immersed in theatre. She knew theatre because she had studied it.
I recently watched an old video someone sent me where she said, ‘I haven’t got it from heaven. I learnt this.’
She had studied at the London School of Theatre. She learnt those techniques, made them her own, and then passed them on.
We were never formally her students. We were her actors, and through working with her, we became her students. We were all young and new, and she kept repeating us (in her plays). We simply learnt because she directed us.
From Hamidabaichi Kothi, all three of us moved to Mahasagar. Vikram (Gokhale) was there too. Then I went on to Savitri. Nana later did Purush.
It became a continuous journey through one production after another.
How did your relationship with her grow over the years?
Theatre lets people enter each other’s personal space. It’s not like shooting, where you finish work and go home. Theatre is deeply personal.
With Bai, we became, what she called, her ‘gang’.
Right till the very end she would ask, ‘Where’s my gang? Why hasn’t my gang come?’ And we always went.
Even Nana would travel from Pune whenever he could.
Earlier, I would visit her almost once a week. Sometimes she would come to my house. She wouldn’t get down because it was difficult for her, but she loved the sunset from my place.
We would sit in her car together, watch the sunset from my place and have an ice-cream, which she was very fond of.
She was effortless. I think that was her greatest quality. She effortlessly led us into her life, and she became part of ours.
Effortlessly, she taught us the magic moments of acting. That’s why all of us are still acting today.
Was there a habit or working style of hers that you still remember vividly?
She used to make notes.
In Hamidabaichi Kothi, Bai herself played Hamidabai, so we had the advantage of constantly being around her. We travelled across the interiors of Maharashtra for 20-day tours, and I would constantly watch her.
I was only 19 or 20 then, completely fascinated by her.
She was always writing notes. Only later did I realise she was preparing her next play. She was meticulous and organised. Unless she had completely prepared the play, she wouldn’t even begin casting.
Only after the script, schedule and technical preparations were ready would she call the actors.
She taught us that acting wasn’t something people did because they couldn’t do anything else. It was a skill. A skill that needed to be constantly polished and shaped, and the respect you command with that.
So, yeah, I am a product of Vijaya Mehta’s school of acting.
I’m not afraid of failure. I’m not scared to try something new and fail.
During our theatre years, there weren’t many other mediums apart from films.
Later I ventured into television and did commercial roles. Nana became a commercial actor, too.
All of us explored different mediums because we weren’t afraid to try. That courage came from her.
Did she influence you beyond theatre?
At every stage in Vijaya Bai’s life, she taught me a new lesson. It wasn’t always about acting. Many of those were life lessons.
Towards the end, for almost 10-15 years, her legs had become weak and she could barely walk. But every time you went to her house, I never saw a happier face. She would giggle like there was a little child inside her. She found the weirdest things funny and would laugh away like a child. That remained till the very end.
Her happiness, and the way her eyes lit up whenever she saw us, remained till the very end.
She was a very happy person, even at 91 or 92.
I know people have aches and pains at that age, and I have to give credit to her family, especially her daughter Anahita. The way she looked after Bai and kept her happy was something. Bai was happy because the atmosphere around her was happy.
Whenever Bai was around, there was never any tension.
Over the last five years or so, I would go to meet her simply because I wanted to. I felt drawn to her. During the last three or four years, I’ve been extremely busy, but on any day I wasn’t shooting, everyone — including my driver — knew we were going to Bai’s house.
What conversations did you have with her?
We would talk about the time we had first met, and all the old memories. She would suddenly remember something from years ago and begin giggling like a child. Then she would ask me, ‘What are you doing now? What projects are you working on? Are you happy doing them? How are the children? What are they doing?’
My children were close to her too.
If she was working and someone said something she didn’t approve of, she would simply become quiet. I still remember that expression. The moment her lips tightened, I knew she hadn’t approved of something.
She never argued.
The kind of concentration Vijaya Mehta had — on stage and otherwise — I don’t think anyone could even come close to it.
Half an hour before going on stage, she was completely removed from the world. Nothing reached her. Only after the performance would she return to normal conversation.
I’ve never seen her flustered.
I’ve never heard her raise her voice.
I’ve never seen her throw a tantrum.
She even stayed at my house when we were shooting a telefilm because the location was nearby. For six or seven days we would leave together for the shoot. So I’ve seen her in every possible situation.
She wasn’t temperamental.
If she didn’t approve of something, she would simply purse her lips, remain quiet and move away. Perhaps people misunderstood her at times, but there was really nothing to misunderstand.
I remember when she stopped directing Marathi theatre, people would invite her to watch their plays, and she would honestly say, ‘I don’t really feel like seeing it just now.’
What did she think of today’s Marathi theatre scene?
She watched Sangeet Devbabhali, and absolutely loved it. In fact, she had asked me several times to go with her, but I couldn’t make it because I’d already seen it.
Both she and Farrokh loved the play. They even called me afterwards to thank me for recommending it.
As she grew older, she became a little hesitant about watching new plays because she worried about hurting young theatre-makers if she didn’t enjoy something.
She would say, ‘If I don’t like it, what do I tell them? They may not understand what I’m trying to say.’
She often wondered whether the younger generation would understand what she wanted to communicate. Even during workshops, she used to ask me, ‘Do they understand what I’m saying?’
There were plays of mine she didn’t particularly like, but those conversations always remained between the two of us. For her, there was never a question of right or wrong. Either something was delightful or it wasn’t.
If you think about everything she contributed — from Rangayan (Vijaya Bai’s theatre group) to theatre festivals and so much more — it’s extraordinary.
Even before I entered theatre, she had already transformed Marathi theatre alongside Vijay Tendulkar, Arvind Deshpande, Dr Shriram Lagoo and so many other greats.
What a body of work they created!
Her contribution to Marathi theatre is immense.
When she passed away, I didn’t speak to anyone for two days. Whatever I wanted to say, I wrote on my blog.
She was known to value her privacy. Was that something you witnessed closely?
She really respected her privacy.
I remember the launch of her book Zimma. It was a big event, and we rehearsed for nearly 10 days. Her ‘gang’ presented one chapter each from the book.
Even today, after years, we can simply pick up the phone and reconnect. Once, Bharati and I drove to Nana’s farmhouse in Pune. He wanted Bai to come too, but her health didn’t permit her to travel.
That bond was entirely because of Bai.
Today, I work with many people, but that doesn’t mean I take everyone home with me or become best friends with them. Once the work is over, everyone goes back to their own lives.
With Bai, that never happened. She would call me regularly.
During the launch of Zimma, the paparazzi gathered around her. She quietly told me, ‘Neena, please shield me from them. I don’t want to talk to them.’
I became like a dragon protecting her.
How do you remember those last few years?
Throughout her life she kept giving, and we kept receiving.
Last year, when I won several awards, there were times when she would be sleeping, and I would still go and sit beside her. I would tell her quietly, ‘I won this award, I won that award. This play is doing very well. I wish you could see it.’
That connection continued.
I have decided that I will continue working till the end of my life, and I am always carrying the magical moments she gave us.
Even today, I don’t like discussing my acting process. Those are the secret moments she gave us.
I remember Vikram Gokhale saying something similar. He told me that he had once gone to her with his concern.
He told Bai, ‘I don’t know what I’m doing in television.’
She said, ‘Really? Do what you always do. Just act.’
Such a simple answer. And that was Bai.
Bai’s relationship with me went beyond being a teacher and director. She was my philosopher, my friend, my partner in crime and so much more.
I don’t want to remember her with sadness. I will remember her giggle. Her joie de vivre, like a little child.
