Sharmila Tagore, When She Shocked & Sizzled

Sharmila Tagore was the first star I wrote a fan letter to. Followed a prompt “Thank You” postcard from her secretary perhaps but signed by her. Shashi Kapoor was the second star I wrote to. No response. Sensibly I think, I stopped writing fan letters.

Now who was to know, years later I’d be interviewing them, and I’d mention those fan letters. Both would bat an eyelid, “Oh really! You must be kidding.”



Fan letters are an expression of admiration, of course, and it helps if you are not grown up. You long for a personal communication which is a silly thing to do, expecting a star to read each letter from the heap (not humanly possible) and then reply with a personal touch.

Truth be told, Amitabh Bachchan is the only star I know who has a professional system to keep a personalised contact with his fans. A secretary sifts through the enormous heap which reaches his address. She singles out the ones which merit a response. Merit did I say? Correct because some fan letters can be way-out cranky and are written in blood.

The volume of fan letters is an indicator. When the number declines obviously it points to the fact that a star is no longer happening. Which is why stars who would be stormed by snail-mail get worried when the postman no longer rings the doorbell. Rekha, despite being out in the cold nowadays, claims that her loyal fans continue to adore her and that the number of letters pouring in are incalculable. Good for her.

Anyway, my column today is for my first subject of fandom. Being the sort who’d trot off as a kid to the Chitra cinema’s morning shows in Dadar, I was familiar with La Tagore’s mesmeric presence in Satyajit Ray’s Apur Sansar and Devi. She was real as life itself.

Quite contradictorily she could be the drop-dead gorgeous Kashmir ki Kali. And for some absurd reason, I was fascinated by her high-heel walk in Sawan ki Ghata, which I can no longer recall for any other reason than her wig, kohl-laden eyes and a hauteur (read nakhras). She was my poster-girl much to the alarm of the elders at home, who were afraid that I was living in a dream world.

If my monthly school reports showed a dip on occasion, it was blamed on Sharmila Tagore. “Uff, stop this childish crush,” Grandma would huff. “Wait till you grow up and we’ll get you married to a girl better than that Sharmila of yours. Anyway she’s much too old for you.”

“Oh please Nani,” I would groan. “Nothing like that. I just like the way she looks and carries herself in the movies.”

Time zipped. I became a journalist, wished to cover beats other than films. That was not to be. Meanwhile, Sharmila Tagore was replaced by other favourites, Mumtaz and then Sridevi.

Interviews with La Tagore would go okay, but not memorable. I’d ask crisscross questions about her excellent performances in Ray’s Nayakand Aranyer Din Ratri and wonder how she could lead a double life as the glamour-oozing heroine of Evening in Paris and Aamne Saamne. Her best performances outside of the Ray oeuvre for me were in Anupama, Amar Prem and Mausam. Pasand apni apni I guess.

Whenever quizzed about her startling bikini cover of Filmfare in 1966, clicked by Dhiraj Chawda, she’d reply, “Oh that! It’s history now.” The cover had sent shock waves and according to the reports of those days was even discussed in Parliament.

Sharmila Tagore had taken on the real-life persona of the Begum of Pataudi. She projected class and dignity. The Filmfare cover, though, is still a big click on the internet.

To my surprise, while scouring through the photo collection of Om Books International in Noida, I came across hard copies of pictures which had been used for the inside pages of Filmfare. “Could I have scans of them please?”

“Sure, but why?” wondered Om’s head honcho Ajay Mago and Editor Dipa Chaudhuri. “No reason really,” I mumbled. “Except perhaps to bring my life full circle. There was a time when I wrote a fan letter to Ms. Tagore. And I was told by my elders to forget about her.” Which of course, I couldn’t. And didn’t.

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