Being Ritu: The Unforgettable Story of Ritu Nanda

PREFACE

THE YEAR 1948. INDIA IS TRYING OUT INDEPENDENCE, WITH varying results. Early in the year, on 30 January, the man who spearheaded the independence movement and won India its freedom is shot dead. Even as the nation mourns Mahatma Gandhi’s death, political moves strengthen the country, knitting it into one, as princes and nawabs cede their power and blend their kingdoms into the Republic.

The year 1948. Hindi cinema takes great strides into the future. This is the year that a yet-to-be recognized singer, Mohammed Rafi, sings ‘Is dil ke tukde hazar hue’, a song that wins him the attention of Hindi film music director Naushad for whom he will soon sing a series of evergreen solos. It is also the year when Ziddi, based on a story by Ismat Chughtai, launches Dev Anand as the lead hero, besides ensuring star status for Kamini Kaushal and Pran. Kishore Kumar and Lata Mangeshkar record their first duet ‘Yeh kaun aaya’. Two hit films, Shaheed and Mela, place the hero, Dilip Kumar, in the forefront of the new stars of Hindi films.

And for Raj Kapoor, the year brings its own bounty. He has just decided to turn director—this young man of twenty-four—and to that end has set up RK Films and launched Aag, directed by and starring himself.

And he is about to become a father again!

On 30 October, when he sees the light green eyes of his newborn daughter reflecting his own, the man, who has already been building a reputation as a stealer of hearts, loses his forever. Ritu will always remain his favourite princess.

In other ways too, 1948 was momentous. Born the same year, Jayalalithaa would rule over cinema in the South before stepping up to become chief minister of Tamil Nadu; Hema Malini would dance her way into the dreams of many a viewer as the ultimate dream girl. And the girl next door would find her loveable avatar in Jaya Bhaduri.

Interestingly, Jaya Bhaduri, born in a journalist’s family, who proved herself a consummate, well-loved actress, and Ritu Kapoor, who though born into the celebrated Kapoor family is kept away from the world of films, will find their destinies entwined. But more of that later.

For now, let’s begin at the beginning: the story of Ritu Nanda née Kapoor. A story steeped in all the qualities of the human heart that one prizes most: compassion, love, joie de vivre, generosity, courage and fortitude. A story about a person who touched the lives of everyone she met in immeasurable ways. Ways they could never forget.

1

BELOVED SISTER

‘Yun to aapas mein bigadte hain, khafa hote hain’

—Andaz

THE HOME RAJ KAPOOR’S BABY DAUGHTER LIVED IN WAS INDEED FIT for a princess. Built in 1946, a year before the birth of her elder brother, Randhir, fondly called Daboo, the 3,000 sq. ft bungalow sprawled across a green patch in Deonar on the outskirts of the Mumbai suburb of Chembur. It was secluded enough to give the family privacy as the children grew, and close enough to the acreage of studio space that Raj Kapoor has acquired to make his films in. Over the years, the studio would evolve into one of the country’s most iconic spaces, the cradle for a series of path-breaking entertainers, its logo marking it out as the brainchild of an eternal romantic.

The home, however, remained private. A retreat for the showman after a day’s work, where he could delight in home-cooked food and the sound of childish laughter.

As daughters of celebrity, eternally busy or preoccupied fathers are wont to do, Ritu grew up in the shade of her mother Krishna’s dupatta. Through the years, despite her closeness to her siblings, her mother would remain Ritu’s best friend, confidante and the one she first shared her joys and sorrows with.

She adored her elder brother, Daboo—mischievous, loud, full of fun. And when the younger siblings—Rishi (Chintu), Rima and Rajiv (Chimpu)—came along, she would extend her love to include them too. ‘Unlike the rest of us, she was quiet,’ Daboo remembers, ‘she was studious, and the quietest in the family.’

‘My sister was thrilled when I was born,’ remembers Rima, Ritu’s younger sister. ‘She had always wanted a younger sister, used to tell her mother about it, and now her wish had come true.

‘She loved me like a mother; there was a gap of eight years between us. I was her baby, I felt closer to her than to my mother. And she was my guardian angel.’

There must have been many an occasion for the guardian angel to swing into action, for Rima was, in her own words, ‘a naughty child’. She adds, ‘There was zameen–aasmaan ka farak (the difference between chalk and cheese) in our temperaments. I would get into innumerable scraps and fights with my brothers, especially Chintu. Nobody would fight with Ritu. She never gave them a chance.’

So rare was it to see Ritu getting into a temper that Rima remembers the one time it happened as clearly as if it were yesterday. ‘Once, I was fighting with Chintu, and she got into a fight with him on my behalf. He flew into a temper and hit her. She could not believe it, held her cheek and looking at him with shocked eyes said simply, You hit me! That was it. No retaliation, no elder sisterly scolding. So they both ended up crying. That’s how different she was. I would have slapped him right back.’

By the time the five siblings were schoolchildren, Ritu had established special relationships with each of them. In fact, early in her life, she learnt the knack of making everyone she interacted with feel special; with almost each person sure of the fact that Ritu was closest to them.

Imagine then, a sedate schoolgirl sitting quietly while she rode the blue, metallic-tinted Chevrolet Impala to school. The boys would be holding pitched battles, aiming words, perhaps more, at one another, with Rima adding her measure, and Ritu quiet through it all, holding her peace, refusing to intervene, take sides or comment. A quality that would serve her well much later, when she needed to blend the diversity of two disparate worlds into her life.

The drive to school had a set route and a set timetable. The boys studied in Campion, which was at the south end of Bombay city; the two girls at the more genteel Walsingham House School on Nepean Sea Road (now Lady Jagmohandas Road). The girls would get off first, and the car would then wend its way to drop off the boys. And, on the return, the boys, whose classes ended later, would get picked up first, and then the girls on the way home.

‘Ritu and my sister Rita were in the same class, and the two were close friends,’ Nitin Mukesh, son of Mukesh, the celebrated ‘voice of Raj Kapoor’, remembers. ‘My father and hers knew each other in their bachelor days, and working together had cemented that friendship. I often felt we were one family. In fact,’ he adds, ‘I would tease Krishna aunty saying, "You must have lost me in a mela; I am surely part of your family." I have seen Ritu since she was a baby. I’m two years older and been in and out of her house ever since I can remember.’

Thus, it was natural that the Mukesh home be a safe haven for the girls to wait till the car came to take them back. ‘School would end by 3.30, and as the car would not come for another ninety minutes at least, the girls would join my sister and come over to our house.’

A single wall stood between the school and the building where the singer lived with his family. A providentially created hole in the wall made it easy for the three girls to gather their green-and-white checked uniforms close and step across to run into the building.

‘We lived in a simple two-bedroom flat; nothing compared to the semi-palace she lived in, where everything was beautiful or costly or rare. Yet, Ritu never ever felt or showed unease at the simplicity of our life,’ Nitin says.

‘She never let us feel she was a film star’s daughter. She would go into the kitchen, saying, Aunty, I will make the milk ready for all; she would open the fridge and help herself, completely at home. And she would, despite her love for meat and fish, quietly eat the Gujarati farshan or bhel that my strictly vegetarian mother put out for us. Rima, on the other hand,’ Nitin says with a laugh, ‘would throw a fit. She’d say, When you come to our place you feast on chicken; why do you give me this …?’

The Kapoor home was indeed very different from the two-bedroom flat Ritu and Rima spent their afternoons in. For one, the bungalow had two floors. The girls had a room on top, the boys were downstairs. ‘Our room was done up in pastel colours, soft and muted,’ Rima recollects. ‘There were our beds, a dressing table and stool, and a cupboard. We hardly used make-up, my mother disapproved of our doing so, but we would sit at the table and get ready.

‘I could get quite messy; Ritu, on the other hand, was neat and her side of the bed was always tidy. One side of the room was enclosed by a curtain for privacy. It was just another regular girls’ room. And we would lie in bed and chat, share stories, or I would talk about my grouses and my fights with my mother, and Ritu would soothe me; she would invariably take our mother’s side, but explain her point of view and ultimately calm me down.’

2

BONDS OF CHILDHOOD

‘Chanchal, sheetal, nirmal, komal’

—Satyam Shivam Sundaram

PERHAPS NOTHING SPEAKS MORE ELOQUENTLY OF A PERSON’S nature than the ability to hold on to the friends of childhood. Ritu’s coterie of friends from her school days remained in touch with her throughout her life. Most of them shared a common background, their fathers were connected to films in one way or the other. And, of course, each of them grew up with a love for films flowing through their veins.

Sheetal Khanna, who lives in Delhi, was among the closest of Ritu’s friends. ‘Nobody knows me as Sheetal, I am Kuppy to one and all of my friends,’ is how she introduces herself. Her memories go back practically to the day she was born, ‘as the same doctor, Dr Karuna Karan, delivered us both’.

Ritu and Kuppy, who was a year and a few months older, became fast friends, walking hand in hand or with arms around each other’s shoulders, down ‘Hollywood Lane’ in Matunga, where Ritu’s grandparents and Kuppy’s parents lived. ‘Krishna aunty would come with all her children to spend the day with her mother-in-law, whom she adored,’ Kuppy says, ‘and so Ritu would come there from school.’

Many an afternoon was spent playing hopscotch or visiting each other’s houses with the family.

Come evening and the lane would be dotted with local food vendors, and the girls be spoilt for choice, trying to decide between all the goodies. ‘We would indulge in the best bhel puri, paani puri and gola sherbet almost every day. Freshly baked cookies and homemade kulfis were other treats,’ Kuppy remembers.

Neither girl paid any attention to the fact that the people who went in and out of their lane in their big cars were part of the swish set of Hindi cinema—the singing star, K.L. Saigal, actors Amrish Puri, Manmohan Krishna and Madan Puri among them. They had stars in their own families. If Kuppy could boast of a scriptwriter father, J.K. Nanda, who would win the President’s Award for his screenplay of Mirza Ghalib, Ritu’s galaxy of stars flowed down from her grandfather, Prithviraj Kapoor, down to her own father, and would in time include her uncles, Shammi and Shashi. Unaware of the adulation of the world outside that would surround the members of her family, Ritu would grow up choosing her own film star favourites, from a world far removed from her own.

Birthdays were a big event in her life, and celebrated as only a princess’s birthday should be. ‘We always celebrated our birthdays and the birthdays of our siblings together,’ Kuppy remembers. Adding that their very normal childhood included playing I Spy and L-O-N-D-O-N in the lane, and when inside, ‘house house’ and a perhaps a movie-inspired game named ‘behen behen’ (where two sisters are separated when young only to be reunited years later). To be sure, it gave enough scope for them to indulge in some girlish histrionics.

Histrionics were also part of the entertainment Ritu, Kuppy and some others rustled up to show parents and anybody who would be interested in their families. Kuppy relives one such memory: ‘One time, we collected money for the Bihar Relief Fund by selling tickets to our skit called "Report Card". We sold the tickets for 1 anna each. The performance also included a Mexican shuffle dance. We ended up collecting Rs 7 and 8 annas which we gave to Ritu’s mom who we all fondly called Bhabhiji. The money was added to their own contributions and sent to the fund.’

It was not a show without its bad moments for the performers. ‘My moustache fell off,’ Kuppy says, ‘and there were members of the audience demanding their money back. But all ended well.’

Other memories come crowding in. Of the time when cousins and younger aunts got together, and the fun times it resulted in. Girlie stuff, but steps towards growing up. Small rites of passage that taught lessons along the way.

But even early in her life, Ritu’s sense of style was evident. ‘She would wear a Katherine dress, and we would stare at her admiringly,’ says cousin Bunty Kapur, who is Raj Kapoor’s sister Urmi’s daughter. Later on, when Ritu would adopt chiffon saris and wear a flower on one side of her hair as her signature style, she says: ‘We would look at her getting ready for college and be in awe of her.’

Uma, who is Ritu’s aunt, but around the same age as Ritu, remembers one such story: ‘One day, I must have been ten then, watching our elders cook, we both decided to get creative. We tried to persuade my mother to allow us into the kitchen; but, of course, that permission was not granted. We were given some rice and other stuff, gur, I think, to make kheer, and instructed to do whatever we wanted to do in the garden. We set up a make-believe kitchen with stones and planks and a real choolha with bricks. Armed with oodles of confidence, despite there being no one to guide us, Ritu and I put the rice to cook. Without washing or cleaning it, we mixed gur into the rice, added water and put it on the fire to cook. When we felt that it was ready, we excitedly went about serving everyone our kheer. Of course, the inevitable happened. Everything had to be thrown away amidst much laughter!’

Later on, under the supervision of the head cook, Mistry, the girls would, during the summer holidays, gather under the shady trees to ‘cook dal chawal and other food, as part of the ghar-ghar game, and Ritu would organize everything.’

Rima tells of the ritual gudda–guddi doll wedding that every girl plays at, adding that in the case of Ritu and her friends the entire event was larger than life, taking on the proportions of a production. ‘Every little detail would be looked into, in the ceremony of Ritu’s tailor’s daughter’s gudda being wedded to Ritu’s guddi. The huge compound would be readied for the ceremony, and once the rituals were done, the bride’s doli would be taken in a car. The entire colony would join in, some in the baraat, some in the bidai. It was an annual event and Ritu put all of herself into it.’

Perhaps, if they had looked closely, her family would have seen, hidden in the handling of her make-believe play by the still plump, shy, pretty pre-teen, the focused, organized mind of a woman who would one day handle not one but three different businesses with elan and quiet efficiency.

When Kuppy and Ritu found out they would soon be attending different schools, Ritu realized she could benefit doubly from the circumstance. She would make new friends in her new school. ‘We went to different schools. Ritu went to Walsingham, which was in town, while I went to Auxilium Convent closer to home in Wadala. Despite being in different schools, our friendship grew stronger year after year since we spent most of our free time together,’ Kuppy says.

Ritu’s friends in school included Shahnaz,