Satadru Ojha (BOMBAY TIMES; January 21, 2014)

When did you last speak to your grandmother?
Even the evening before she passed away (on January 17), I remember amma was completely in her senses. She was so aware of everything around her. And trust me, we never saw this coming... (pauses) Even if you know someone is ill, you’re never prepared for death — at least, we weren’t. And it happened so fast, it hasn’t sunk in yet. But then, amma was a fighter and she fought till the end.
 
Did she ever say she was in pain?
No. She never complained. Even the doctors could see that. ‘Your grandmother is so sophisticated. She’s so reserved and never says if she’s feeling ill,’ they’d tell me. She was always so strong, so independent.
 
What are your earliest memories of your amma? Was she a strict grandmother?
Oh no, she was never strict with us (Raima and sister Riya) at all! In fact, being with amma was a treat. She would take us out shopping, to AC Market and Vardaan Market. At that time, she was staying in another house and we would spend a lot of time with her over lunch and dinner. Then we moved in together here (the Sens’ current Ballygunge Circular Road address) and almost half our days would be spent with her, chatting, sharing our thoughts. It was a normal grandmother-granddaughter relationship. For us, she was always amma, never Suchitra Sen.

When we went out, people would flock to her, asking her for autographs. But we were really small and it did not bother us. Also, mummy (Moon Moon Sen) was already in films and we were used to public attention. In fact, in school we were always known as Moon Moon Sen’s daughters rather than Suchitra Sen’s granddaughters. When mum went to pick us up from school, people would rush to see her. We were exposed to her fame first, but as we grew up, we understood how deeply people adored and loved amma.
 
The Sen surname is very special to Bengalis. When did the significance of that — the expectations, adulation, frenzy — finally sink in?
That actually happened later, only when I joined the industry here. It was after I had done at least threefour films, probably after Chokher Bali. Actually, dad had brought us up very normally. When we travelled with him to Jaipur for weddings, Maharani Gayatri Devi (her great-aunt) and so many other dignitaries would be present. But for us, it was all so normal. Initially, when people would compare me to my grandmother, I would wonder why they were doing this. After all, I had done only one or two films then. I couldn’t be her, no one could be her. It was only much later — not till five-seven years back — that I realised this surname carries so much of weight everywhere, especially in Bengal.
 
How interested was amma in your career? Did she advise you on your film choices?
I would always come and tell her about my movies. But she’d watched only two of my films. One day, she was flipping channels when she caught Anuranan. And she loved it so much that she asked me to get her more of my films. I got her many DVDs but she only managed to watch Noukadubi. I remember calling up Tony (Anuranan director Aniruddha Roychowdhury) and telling him how much amma had liked the film. But yes, she was quite involved in my other films. Before I started shooting for Chokher Bali, she read out the whole novel to me. Rituparno Ghosh would hand me stills from the shoot and ask me to show them to amma. She would go through them and she got to know about Rituparno through me. In that phase of my career, when I was doing films like Chokher Bali, Khela, Anuranan, she was very involved. She never gave me career advice as such, it was more like, “Kaaje mon diyo”. She worshipped her work and wanted us to do the same.
 
Did the two of you ever talk about how much you resembled her?
Of course, we did! In fact, I didn’t ever bring it up, but she must have heard it a million times from friends and relatives. She was always very proud of Riya and me… (pauses) And today she’s not there anymore! Mummy would go to her every morning after waking up, while we had our own pace. Even if we didn’t meet her for a few days, she would understand and tell mummy, “Kaaje byasto achhe”. She was a very content person, happy with whatever she had. And I regret it so much now, that I didn’t spend more time with her. I grew closer to her much later, over the past few years, when I realised we had so much in common. It’s an understanding that came very late to me.
 
How do you want her fans and admirers to remember her?
Just remember her in the way she would want to be remembered. She’s done so much, there’s so much to look back on. So why dwell on things like how she looked and how her voice sounded? They have been showing an MMS of her in the media, in which she’s old. But trust me, people don’t like such rubbish and they think it is in very bad taste. They loved her and respected her for her films and don’t want to know about what she ate or how she lived her life. When we were on our way to the funeral, I saw how people were offering pranam and wreaths. I think if you respect someone, you also respect her wishes.