The one & only Amita Malik
Though it is a week late to put in an ode for the departed Amita Malik, it is never too late for her.
I had a long professional relationship with Amita which started off years ago on a sour note. Being the diva of film and TV criticism for over five decades, it was only natural for her to protest about an “upstart” coming into the top half of the supplement as a TV critic while her regular column was relegated to the lower half. That was the first time, a relative fresher in journalism got to know Amita. But, reading her columns and getting acquainted with her vast knowledge on the subject had quite a humbling effect on me and I almost agreed to her “upstart” version of not just me but any other writer in that genre.
Over the years, my respect for her grew by leaps and bounds even though I met her on only negligible occasions.
A lot has been said about her iconic status, the way she shaped her career, or looked after her estranged husband in the last years of his life, or, her prowess to write on any arm of the media, be it radio, TV or films.
As a long-time Pioneer columnist, my department and I got to know her other side too. At 87, you could forgive anyone for being eccentric but her way of life, centered around her reviews, often came in for discussion. For example, no one was allowed to knock her door when she was watching TV programmes.
The rider who used to go to her residence to pick up the hard copy of her column (till the very last she struggled to get used to a computer/e-mail thing and was very apologetic about the typewritten version) had specific instructions to not ring the bell but look for a packet on the right side flowerpot at her door.
That packet would contain her typed column, often riddled with corrections she made by hand. And if the packet was not there for some reason, the man was told to come back another day! But such eventualities were rare with her. She was so much of a stickler for deadline that when she used to go for chaemotherapy sessions, she would call and tell you that she would be leaving two or three advance columns in case she did not get back from hospital.
In fact, the way she fought with cancer was inspirational. Never to be cowed down by her loneliness and no-help-at-hand status, she would bravely tell you in a booming voice over the phone that she was all alone and fighting and so maybe her payments should come in time to fund her treatment.
Our office always obliged there, though freelancing is often fraught with delayed cheques.
Once, she told me that she had fallen in the kitchen, went unconscious and could not even drag herself to the main door to somehow get someone to take her to hospital. All the while, there was no self-pity that she showed, only a matter-of-fact take on why her column was late or not in the flower pot on an anointed Wednesday.
She was feted and feared by electronic and other media organisations who used to take her reviews very seriously. You would almost always see her in heavy make-up at media gatherings and film festivals, a diminutive figure in a silk saree, sporting short crisp hair.
As for my association with her, it was only after I started writing on cricket that she forgave me for usurping her Tv column space. After she read my 2003 World Cup reports from South Africa, I had earned one ardent fan in her as my Editor told me how she was very appreciative of “who is this Meenakshi” for writing so well on cricket.
Cannot tell you how flattered I felt, especially after being treated like an upstart by regular sports writers on the circuit.
Much later, she once sent me a hand-written note saying I should write more on sports. The note continues to be on display on the office wall next to my seat, reminding of one of the few objective critics.
I had a long professional relationship with Amita which started off years ago on a sour note. Being the diva of film and TV criticism for over five decades, it was only natural for her to protest about an “upstart” coming into the top half of the supplement as a TV critic while her regular column was relegated to the lower half. That was the first time, a relative fresher in journalism got to know Amita. But, reading her columns and getting acquainted with her vast knowledge on the subject had quite a humbling effect on me and I almost agreed to her “upstart” version of not just me but any other writer in that genre.
Over the years, my respect for her grew by leaps and bounds even though I met her on only negligible occasions.
A lot has been said about her iconic status, the way she shaped her career, or looked after her estranged husband in the last years of his life, or, her prowess to write on any arm of the media, be it radio, TV or films.
As a long-time Pioneer columnist, my department and I got to know her other side too. At 87, you could forgive anyone for being eccentric but her way of life, centered around her reviews, often came in for discussion. For example, no one was allowed to knock her door when she was watching TV programmes.
The rider who used to go to her residence to pick up the hard copy of her column (till the very last she struggled to get used to a computer/e-mail thing and was very apologetic about the typewritten version) had specific instructions to not ring the bell but look for a packet on the right side flowerpot at her door.
That packet would contain her typed column, often riddled with corrections she made by hand. And if the packet was not there for some reason, the man was told to come back another day! But such eventualities were rare with her. She was so much of a stickler for deadline that when she used to go for chaemotherapy sessions, she would call and tell you that she would be leaving two or three advance columns in case she did not get back from hospital.
In fact, the way she fought with cancer was inspirational. Never to be cowed down by her loneliness and no-help-at-hand status, she would bravely tell you in a booming voice over the phone that she was all alone and fighting and so maybe her payments should come in time to fund her treatment.
Our office always obliged there, though freelancing is often fraught with delayed cheques.
Once, she told me that she had fallen in the kitchen, went unconscious and could not even drag herself to the main door to somehow get someone to take her to hospital. All the while, there was no self-pity that she showed, only a matter-of-fact take on why her column was late or not in the flower pot on an anointed Wednesday.
She was feted and feared by electronic and other media organisations who used to take her reviews very seriously. You would almost always see her in heavy make-up at media gatherings and film festivals, a diminutive figure in a silk saree, sporting short crisp hair.
As for my association with her, it was only after I started writing on cricket that she forgave me for usurping her Tv column space. After she read my 2003 World Cup reports from South Africa, I had earned one ardent fan in her as my Editor told me how she was very appreciative of “who is this Meenakshi” for writing so well on cricket.
Cannot tell you how flattered I felt, especially after being treated like an upstart by regular sports writers on the circuit.
Much later, she once sent me a hand-written note saying I should write more on sports. The note continues to be on display on the office wall next to my seat, reminding of one of the few objective critics.
Published on March 1, 2009, Sunday Pioneer http://www.dailypioneer.com/159500/The-one--only-Amita-Malik.html
Comments
Post a Comment