On Sridevi’s birth anniversary, Filmfare’s Editor-in-Chief Jitesh Pillaai remembers the legendary actor and the indelible mark she left on cinema. From her effortless performances to the warmth she shared off-screen, he reflects on the unforgettable memories of a true icon.
In his words:
It’s a tricky thing knowing actors. Now you see them, now you don’t. Now you know them, now you don’t. I first met Sridevi on the sets of Gumrah. She was distant, aloof and the quintessential queen bee. An Asha Bhosle song was being picturised on her in the tradition of old-world Hollywood musicals. I was hooked. As a rookie reporter, I mustered up courage and asked her for an interview. She said yes in a flash. And then made me chase her for almost a month. The interview wasn’t extraordinary, but Sridevi made an impression on me. First impressions stay.
Like a reel of cinema unspooling, you could see her unravel on screen. I’ve devoured her work be in the nonsensical Himmatwala (1983), Maqsad (1984), Justice Chaudhary (1983), Tohfa (1984), Mawaali (1983). Or even the semi-substantial Suhaagan (1986), Jaag Utha Insaan (1984), Chandni (1989).
With Nagina (1986) and Mr India (1987), Sridevi had come of age in Bollywood. But the South had caught up much earlier. Be it Meendum Kokila (1981), Moondru Mudichu (1976), Moondram Pirai (1982), or Johnny (1980), she ruled the marquee in Tamil and Telugu cinema. Besides, of course, the hazaar pots and pans routine in films with NT Rama Rao, A Nageshwar Rao, and Krishna.
When Sridevi came on-screen, all your reservations melted away. Her dances had such fluidity; the camera was like putty in her hands. Everything she did was effortless. She never had to try too hard. She could make bad look good. And good look even better.
When Sridevi wore a hat with fake fruits, when she pummelled men like a boss in Sherni (1988), when she slithered like a snake in Nagina (1986), you were willing to suspend disbelief.
Sridevi gently lulled you into believing anything was possible. Those coffee-brown eyes I’ve encountered time and again. Then she hastily got married when she was pregnant with Janhvi. They sent us pictures of her marriage to Boney Kapoor with her in an advanced state of pregnancy.
After that, we bumped into each other on and off. At award functions, when Boney Kapoor called us for shooting stints to Hyderabad. Meanwhile, I would be content watching reruns of her inane films like Naaka Bandi (1990), Guru (1989), Waqt Ke Shehzaade (1982), Laadla (1994), Chaand Ka Tukda (1994).
She was the perfect commercial doll. She could act, sing and fight. I hadn’t seen anything like this before. She had perfected her craft. Even then there were hundreds of conspiracy theories. And I’m certain even long after she’s gone, there will be speculation. But Sri or Ma’am, as I called her, would silence everyone with her hauteur and her spry performances.
She could be all things to all people. On screen. Mother, sister, daughter. Never one to experiment beyond the formulae, she had honed her craft, and it was evident both in English Vinglish (2012) and Mom (2017). She used silence as her effective armament. And she used it with her eyes to convey pools of sadness and anger. Her breakdown in the hospital in the averagely directed Mom (2017) is the stuff stellar scenes are made of.
Commercial cinema demands you walk the tightrope between theatrics, melodrama and make-believe. She aced it all. She could interiorise her performance like she did in Jaag Utha Insan (1984) or exteriorise it like the over-the-top Chaalbaaz (1989) or Roop Ki Rani Choron Ka Raja (1993)…sometimes the accent jarred, but not a moment did it take away from her performance.
I was pleasantly surprised when I was one of the few people at her last birthday party. She showed a fun side and gave me a glimpse into her personal side. She wanted Janhvi’s debut to be the perfect launch pad. As a concerned mother, you could see she was grooming her daughters.
We shared a few confidences, and I was amazed at the articulation and clarity of thought. Which, for long, I had thought disappeared behind her inability to communicate because of “imagined” language barriers. She would chortle at my attempts to speak a goulash of Tamil and Telugu.
On her birthday, we hold on to memories because they reassure us. They remind us of a time when we were happy and safe. She did that time and again with her performances. Though I knew her for over 20 years, the little I got to know her was about five years ago. Sridevi was warm and compassionate. Her inability to articulate her thoughts was made up for with warm hugs and occasional phone calls. And the joy she unleashed on screen. The eddies and currents churning behind that still face.
Happy Birthday, Sridevi. You were simply the best. Hope you are at peace always. Ypu are missed terribly.
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