Something elementary in her performance is the much-abused word spontaneity. But you will see that in Tanuja, especially her Bengali films, Anthony Firingee (1967), Teen Bhubaner Pare (1969), Adalat O Ekti Meye (1981), or the more recent outstanding turn in Shonar Pahar (2018). You can see the storm raging beneath when she’s sitting by herself in the rocking chair.
You can see the same craft and ease, be it Ek Masoom (1969) or A Death in the Gunj (2016). It’s a pity she got slotted into the long-suffering mother ghar-dwar family dramas and became the suffering bhabhi in Boxer (1984) and Yaarana (1981) to much older heroes.
Tanuja marched to her own beat. She made the rules; she broke them. If she had scars, she didn’t show them to the world. Once in a while you can see the glimmer of pain and hurt in Pitruroon (2013).
She will scream and yell the place down like she did when she sizzled in Vijay Anand’s sensually choreographed song Raat akeli hai (Jewel Thief, 1967), and then she will interiorise her performance and play a stoic rape victim in Adalat O Ekti Meye.
She won’t demystify her craft; she has no interest. She will float like the foam on the seas; you have to taste the salt. From Guru Dutt to Kishore Kumar, she’s hung out with eccentric geniuses. She knows so much but has very little to say. That’s like her craft. You have to make sense and meaning of what’s on display. Hers is not to tell. Yours is to discern and savour. Happy birthday, Tanujaji.
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