A FORGOTTEN AFFAIR
Dada Kondke with Anitaa Padhye
I got to know Ashabai (Bhosle) during my play Vichchha Majhee Puri Kara (Grant My Wish). She had liked Vichchha so much that she would come for performances regularly. That’s how we grew close to each other. I was not well known then. It would come as a big surprise to you if I say that back then, Ashabai and I were going to get married! Ashabai herself had proposed marriage. That was how close Vichchha had brought us.
On the days when I did not have a show, Ashabai would arrive at my place by 9–9:30 and take me away with her. If I had mentioned to anyone that I visited Ashabai’s house and that we were having an affair, no one would have believed me. People would have said I was imagining things. Ashabai was a famous singer and I was an ordinary folk theatre artist. That Ashabai was fond of me and she took me with her everywhere would give me a heady feeling! But I was not deeply invested in this relationship emotionally.
She loved shopping and eating out. We would spend entire days shopping, and then go to a hotel to eat. When she entered a restaurant, she would call out loudly for the waiter. I think she did it to attract attention. Then she would order several dishes and would tip the waiter a hundred rupees. I got to know of many good eating joints thanks to her.
When Ashabai had a song recording, I would wait outside the studio until she finished her work. I had no choice—she would lose her temper quickly if I did not go with her. I have visited all the major studios in Mumbai with her. When people from the Hindi film industry saw me hanging around in the studios, they would whisper, ‘Yeh dekho Ashabai ka aadmi.’ (That’s Ashabai’s kept man). And why wouldn’t they? I would always go with her for all the recordings.
At times, Ashabai would introduce me to the bigwigs from the industry. Once she told Ameen Sayani—‘Yeh Dada Kondke hai. Inka programme aap ek baar dekhiye. Has-haske aapke pet mein dard ho jaayega.’ (This is Dada Kondke. You must go and see his show once. Your stomach will hurt with laughter.)
‘Oh, is that so?’
Why would Ameen Sayani be interested in Marathi folk theatre? When Ashabai praised me to these people, I felt awkward and out of place.
When I visited Ashabai’s house, I would have to sit around and while away time. I remember, once O.P. Nayyar had come to her house when I was there. He was very drunk and both of them had a big fight.
One day at her place, she gave me a chocolate after lunch. I sucked on it for a while. Then I got tired of it and bit into it. It released a liquid that smelt of liquor. The smell made me feel queasy. Ashabai saw the discomfort on my face and asked, ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Was there some liquor in that chocolate?’
‘Yes, my children also eat it. What’s wrong with that?’
‘I can’t tolerate it,’ I said.
Within a short while, I vomited a couple of times. Ashabai personally came to drop me home and gave me some tablets. ‘These tablets will make you feel better. You have an aversion to alcohol.’ My mouth smelt of that liquor for a long time afterwards.
Once Ashabai came to pick me up from home. My sister-in-law had come visiting from the village. She asked me excitedly, ‘Who is this (woman)?’
‘Asha Bhosle.’
‘What does she do?’
I was stunned. My sister-in-law didn’t know who Asha Bhosle was. Trying to appear casual, I replied, ‘She sings.’
Thankfully, Ashabai did not seem to take it to heart.
At Ashabai’s place, things were awkward. Ashabai and Latabai did not get along, so Latabai would send for me deliberately. Ashabai would forbid me, ‘Don’t go.’ How could I disregard Didi’s invitation? ‘All right. Go. But don’t spend too much time there,’ Ashabai would warn me.
I would hesitantly go over to Latabai’s house, feeling timid in the presence of these great celebrities. Latabai would beckon me, ‘Please take a seat, Dada.’
But I would keep standing.
‘Please take a seat, I insist.’
‘No, I have to go back soon.’ I had to keep track of the time. Ashabai’s warning was still ringing loud and clear in my head.
‘So, what was Asha saying about me? I want the truth, OK? I don’t mind … let her say what she wants. But she has this bad habit of complaining to people about me.’
‘No, no. Ashabai doesn’t say anything against you,’ I would say and then mumble some pleasantries, finish my tea and leave. Then Ashabai would ask, ‘So, what did Didi have to say?’
‘Oh, nothing special. She was only enquiring about my work.’
These sisters managed to hide their animosity from the world at large. I made sure that I would not reveal to one what the other had said to me. For they would get together every evening and gossip about the day’s visitors and poke fun at them. They did not discuss anything else. It was impossible to imagine that these sisters would discuss other worldly matters such as, say, the political situation in New Delhi. They criticized other people in front of me casually, so I was sure they would do the same to me in my absence. I resolved to simply listen to them without comment. That is how I remained close to them, and I must be the only one to enjoy this privilege for such a long time. I believe that no one knows the Mangeshkar family as well as I do. They do not have anything good to say about anyone. I wonder if they think of each other in the same manner. They stall the progress of anyone who comes in contact with them. I have never heard a kind word for anyone from Latabai.
She would even criticize Baba (Bhalji Pendharkar). But I never told him about it.
There was no doubt that Latabai sang wonderfully. But I never felt like asking her to sing for any of my films, probably because I knew the real person behind that voice. It seems she had remarked to someone, ‘Every producer is after me to sing at least one song in his film, but Dada has never asked me.’
All said and done, Latabai is a great cook. She cooks fish very well, especially bangda (mackerel). And I think gajar-ka-halwa must have assumed its place in Hindi movies because of her! Once she offered me gajar-ka-halwa made by her.
‘How is it? Please tell me the truth,’ she said. I said, ‘Well, I don’t know whether your voice is sweeter or this halwa is. It is possible that your voice is so sweet because you eat this sweet halwa. Or perhaps you were singing while making it, so it became sweet!’ Latabai was very happy with my remark and she offered me some more!
One day, Latabai played a trick on me. I was shooting at Jayaprabha studios in Kolhapur. She had come there to meet Baba. She started chatting with me and said, ‘Baba was praising your marksmanship. It seems you own a .22 airgun. Will you show it to me?’
I promptly fished out my gun from my car and brought along a small tin can to use as a target. I demonstrated to her how to use the airgun. ‘Look here, this is called a “scope”. There is a “plus” sign in it. You have to look through it and take aim. Make sure it doesn’t move. There are five bullets in the gun. After you fire one, you have to turn this key here.’ I gave her all the information and walked to a tree to place the tin can.
Little did I know that Latabai was acting like a novice. She listened to my instructions for half an hour. Before she could fire, I told her, ‘Please rest your arm against the banister so that it doesn’t shake.’
She took aim, fired and instantly drilled a hole in the tin can. I thought it was a fluke. I said in a condescending but encouraging manner, ‘Wow! Very good.’
‘Should I try again?’ she asked innocently.
‘Sure. But don’t move.’ I went over to replace the tin can properly. But she asked me to stop and fired all five bullets in quick succession. All the bullets hit the can!
‘Your turn,’ she said.
I was not going to touch the gun after that display of expertise. I was astonished to discover how skilled she was and felt very unsure of my aim. Covering up, I said, ‘Oh, never mind. You carry on!’
I loaded the gun again. She called for a mirror. Then, placing the gun on her shoulder and looking at the reflection in the mirror, she started drilling more holes into the tin can. She must have practised this several times before, but didn’t betray it even once when I was showing off in the beginning.
Ashabai may have been very stubborn and authoritative, but the way she expressed her appreciation for the artistes was unparalleled. She gave gold rings to all the actors in Vichchha. She would celebrate my birthday in grand style. She would gift clothes, watches and jewellery to anyone who was close to her. But then that person would have to be by her side whenever she wished.
Ashabai loved to cry. She would cry and expect the other person to console her. It was her favourite game. Every two to three days she would indulge in this game. I used to offer her my handkerchief to wipe her face. Through her tearful eyes, she would notice that the kerchief was not clean. I never had time to wash, clean and iron my kerchiefs. Then she purchased a dozen kerchiefs for me. I applied some perfume on them and kept them in a small box in her house. Every time she would cry, I would fetch a clean, scented kerchief from that box.
One day she asked me, ‘Swear by God and tell me the truth— do you like Lata’s voice better or mine?’
She loved to do this—make the other person swear by god and answer unnerving questions. How could a God-fearing person like me tell a lie? I said, ‘I like Latabai’s voice.’ Then she broke down and cried bitterly. I did not know how to console her.
Ashabai had a quick temper. Once I was scheduled to go out of town with my troupe for Vichchha. I informed her, ‘I will be leaving day after tomorrow with my troupe for a tour.’
‘You can’t go,’ she said.
‘But the performances are scheduled. How can I back out at the last minute?’
‘No way. You’re not going. How much do you earn per month from these tours?’
‘After I take care of all the expenses, I manage to save around fifteen to twenty thousand.’ I used to pack in several performances in a month.
‘So cancel those shows. I will pay you that much.’
‘But I can’t cancel at the last minute. I have committed to those people; they must be waiting for me.’
‘Cancel everything. Don’t you love me?’ she asked angrily.
‘Oh, but if I don’t go, I will get bad publicity. I don’t do it only for the money; there’s also the commitments I have made. Suppose I tell you that I will pay you all your charges, but you can’t sing, would that be acceptable i?’
She was deeply hurt by my words. ‘You’re telling me not to sing? Go away. I don’t want to see your face ever again.’ I left without a word and went on the Vichchha tour as planned. When I returned she was back to normal.
When she proposed marriage, I went to Kolhapur to seek Baba’s opinion. She was also with me. She had set down two conditions for marriage. One was that I could not declare that we were married and the other was that she would continue to be called ‘Bhosle’ even after marriage. She also wanted me to leave my house in Naigaon and live in one of her apartments. She told Baba that she had proposed marriage. Baba took me aside and said, ‘Don’t fall into this trap. You have your acting career to think of. She has her family and children. If you get married, you will be reduced to being a servant in her house.’
Baba was my guru. I trusted his judgement. When I thought over his advice, I agreed with him. I decided not to marry Ashabai. When I told her, she was very angry. But I continued visiting her place even after that. Even though I refused to get married, I guess she felt that I had nowhere else to go. This affair went on for four or five years. After I got busy with Songadya, our meetings grew less frequent. Then I stopped visiting her altogether. But our professional ties were not severed. She sang for a couple of my films—Andhala Maarto Dola (The Blind Man Winks) and Hyoch Navara Pahijey (I Want Only This Man as My Husband).
When her love affair with R.D. Burman began, I warned her, ‘Please don’t get married to him.’
‘Ah! You listened to Baba’s advice. He won’t.’
Then she and RD got married. But even now, when we meet at Bombay Labs or some other studio, she asks me, ‘So, do you remember the good old times?’ I pity her. I simply inquire about her health and well-being. There is nothing between us any more.
From Ekta Jeev (A Lonely Life) by Dada Kondke as told to Anitaa Padhye. Translated especially for this anthology by Anupamaa Joshi.