In his words:
When content was king. When heroes were promoted on film banners and posters. When their work spoke. They didn’t need marketing catalysts, social media or a digital push. Talent was the calling card.
Forget what the records say; I think this was Gulzar Saab’s first Hindi-released song. And what a beautiful Dada Burman composition it was. Who else but the magnificent Lata Mangeshkar to give her vocal prowess to this song?
And then there was she. After baby Mohnish had come into the world. The simple yet stunning Nutanji. She could embody the hopes of a million women. She could show you suffering without that air of tragedy, fix you with a piercing stare, and then gather you together and heal all your broken pieces.
That was Nutan. Never before, never after. If she had layers, they were for the screen. Every nuance was understated. Every word was laced with subtext. And yet be it Bandini (1963) or Sujata (1959), her pain made you ache.
She ruled the marquee for years, and yet there was such a simple, unaffected quality to her. None of that diva-dom. She acted because she cared. In her own way, she espoused the cause of feminism and empowered women much before all these fashionable hashtags were thrown in our face.
Nutan was the calm after the storm. The Florence Nightingale on screen. When you were bruised, she healed you. And made sure you went home thinking about how right or wrong your choices were. Her acting made you think and feel. How many actors can stake claim to that?
Also Read: Editor’s Take: A Journey Through Mani Ratnam’s Timeless Cinema
