Smita Patil At 70 | Beautiful, Luminous, Graceful: Remembering Smita Through Her Songs

Wrapped in a yellow saree, a woman with long hair, fringes curling at the temple and a small necklace enveloping her neck, sings “Dushman Na Kare Dost Ne Woh Kaam Kiya Hai.” Her eyes are teary, there is no sindoor, no bindi, no mangalsutra, i.e. no traditional Hindu markers of being married. She stands alone, towering over the screen, but restrains herself from completely revealing the depth of her grief. The film is J. Om Prakash’s Aakhir Kyon? (1985). The song is sung by Lata Mangeshkar, and the actor is Smita Patil. Born on this day in 1955, Patil died painfully young at the age of 31, due to post-pregnancy complications.

Remembered largely for her roles in films like Bhumika (1977), Manthan (1976), Mirch Masala (1987), Arth (1982) and Mandi (1983), among many others, she was a cultural icon who challenged conventions of beauty, gender, and stardom. Her commitment towards cinema as both art and a medium of social critique valued portrayals of women wrestling with autonomy, recognition, discrimination, poverty, violence, and reform. The legend goes that she decided to begin working in commercial cinema the day she read in the newspaper that her friend, Sai Paranjpye has cast Shabana Azmi in Sparsh (1980) instead of her. Today, we look at a few of her songs from the final years of her life to remember traces of her laughter, anguish, sensuality, and mischief.

Throughout “Dushman Na Kare Dost Ne Woh Kaam Kiya Hai,” one is enchanted with Patil’s ability to strike a balance between revealing and withholding emotions. Having been betrayed by her husband and cousin, she portrays the character of Nisha with poise and dignity. Yet, at the same time, she manages to represent her not merely as conventional in maintaining a sanitised public image, but as someone who holds on to her inner strength when confronting those who have wronged her. Her restraint, while voicing her grief, thus becomes a moment of both resistance and confrontation. She draws us in only to retreat, retaining a sense of opacity and the singularity of her experience, while revealing a capacity to embody the most intricate of emotions, such as melancholia. At the end of the song before leaving the gathering, she takes a final look at her cousin and husband—a fleeting glance that seems to seek an answer even as it rejects the necessity of one.

In the famous song “Aaj Rapat Jaye” from the film Namak Halaal (Prakash Mehra 1982) alongside Amitabh Bachchan, she presents herself in a completely different avatar. Her movements and gestures, in the grip of desire, possess a water-nymph like rhythm. One gets easily and fortunately distracted from Bachchan’s lascivious performance by Patil’s commanding screen presence. Her sister, Manya P. Seth, later recalled that Smita felt she should not have taken part in the song. Perhaps her visible unease at the beginning of the song attests to that uncertainty and dilemma. Yet, as the sequence unfolds, she gradually carves a space for the heroine to express desire and claim control in moments of intimacy—to not follow, but lead, to transform from demure to daring.

Her naughtiness—a girlhood marked by freedom and playful honesty—shines in the song “Chhote Chhote Din Aur Lambi Lambi Raatein” from Raj Khosla’s Meraa Dost Meraa Dushman (1984). Placed among friends, the song hints at the spirit of young adulthood—nocturnal, self-contained, dreaming up scenarios, and talking to prospective lovers. What makes it particularly charming is that it features Lila (Patil) with her circle of girl friends: talking, teasing, bathing each other, laughing, cajoling, and sharing secrets to form a community, where gazes are returned and belong entirely to the feminine ecosystem. Here, desire mirrors itself among women and their bodies. Patil’s performance is exuberant: she is mischievous, joyous, magnetic, and occasionally breaks the fourth wall. She infuses an ordinary night and an equally mundane morning with a vibrant, theatrical energy that transforms the scene into an intimate celebration of girlhood. 

And then there is the renowned song, “O Mother Mary” from Bheegi Palkein (Sisir Mishra, 1982) where Patil is still, formal, and quietly equanimous as she inhabits the role of a teacher at a convent school left bereft by her husband (played by Raj Babbar). In praying to Mary, she recognises the fragility of human relationships and anchors herself in faith against the backdrop of religious and caste hierarchies.

Her songs, alongside an impressive filmography, reveal a spectrum of femininity. Ranging from rebellion to dignified fortitude, Smita Patil’s artistic endeavours—luminous and graceful—resist closure, leaving the spectator both captivated and provoked. Her acting prowess routinely transformed ordinary gestures and everyday moments into performative reverie, holding our gaze with an irresistible intensity.