(Article by Padmini from filmfare magazine 22 nov 1957)
“There has been more smiles than sobs in my life,” Says the beautiful dancing star Padmini
It has been said that life is a bundle of sobs and smiles, and more sobs. Mine is no exception. Perhaps the only difference is that so far there have been more smiles than sobs in my life. And there is no reason why it should be different in future. But, each sob and smile has taught me a lesson and made me a better human being, with great understanding and a wider outlook. Naturally, therefore, i find it hard to forget the sobs and smiles. I would like to forget some of them, particularly the sobs, but the more I try the more unforgettable they become.
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| Padmini on the cover page of Filmfare Magazine 22 Nov 1957 |
For instance, my best efforts have not so far helped me to forget the horrible encounter I had with a burglar on the terrace of my home in Mylapore last year. On the contrary, I am unconsciously led to accord top priority to it.
It was a sultry night. Restless and uneasy, I went up to the terrace, where I spread my bedding and fell asleep. Shortly after midnight, I woke up with a start to see a thief with a dagger in his hand. He threatened to harm me if I raised an alarm. I do not know hiw I got the courage, but I pushed the fierce-looking man away, threw my pillows and sheets at him and cried for help. The thief jumped from the terrace but before he could get out of the compound our neighbours overpowered him and handed him over to the police. This is not an “event” to remember, but it had taught me not to lose my presence of mind, even in times of danger.
A series of “accidents” was responsible for my going on the stage and later joining films. Everyone of them has left an indelible stamp on my memory.
I was born in a middle-class family, and while I was a baby I was adopted by a rich aunt. She brought me up in luxury. But at the age of four I was a frail little girl and my aunt decided I must have exercise to improve my health. About this time Gopinath, the dancer at the Travancore palace, started a dance school. My aunt was a lover of the arts. She thought dancing was exercise, knowledge and art rolled into one and she made up her mind to train me in it. At the dance school Lalitha, my elder sister, was my companion, friend and guide.
Lalitha (lalli as she is affectionately called) was full of mischief, while I was the quiet type. At school I used to join her in her pranks, but she always managed to escape punishment. One day, a plump little girl, who had just joined the school, came up to us and asked us about some dance movements.
Lalli winked at me and took the new girl to the wardrobe in which the dance costumes were kept. She then coolly put the girl in the almirah, closed it and came away and joined the class. During the roll-call our guru asked where the new girl was. I could not stand the strain any longer and told him the truth.
The guru rushed to the almirah and found the girl almost unconscious. I got a spanking from the guru, and when I went home I received a severe scolding. My aunt’s brother even threatened to take us out of the school, but my good aunt intervened on our behalf and, if it were not for her, we would not have been the dancers we are today!
An old tattered umbrella, which my mother has preserved, revives a childhood memory. On the way to school I had to pass by an aerodrome. The landing and the taking-off of planes used to fascinate me, and everyday I would wait at the barbed-wire fence to watch the planes arrive or leave.
One evening I was coming home after watching the planes when a sudden gale, accompanied by a thunder-shower arose. I opened my umbrella, but the wind was so strong that I was literally lifted off my feet and I fell down with a thud. I don't know what happened after that. A search-party found me unconscious long afterwards.
Pointing to the old umbrella, my mother still teases me about how I nearly “went up in the air”. |
| Padmini in film Vivahitha 1970 |
My first public performance, the forerunner of nearly three thousand recitals, is a memorable event. It was given before the maharaja of travancore on the occasion of his birthday. Gopinath’s troupe performed a number of dances and a Radha-Krishna item was assigned to my sister and me. I was a little girl, but I was not shy. I merely followed my sister like a shadow and did whatever she did. Our recital was apparently good, for it was appreciated. I will never forget the few words of encouragement the Maharaja spoke to us.
Equally vivid is my memory of an incident which took place after our performance at Bezwada. It was our first recital outside our home state, Travancore. We were going to catch a train back to Travancore. The train was scheduled to arrive at 4 a.m. Since there was plenty of time, we went into the station waiting-room. At about 3-30 a.m. a train whistle woke me. Then I saw a man who had a shawl round him, walking down the platform. I immediately thought it was my guru, who used to wear a similar shawl, and I followed him down the platform and then in the direction of the Krishna river.
Meanwhile, the train steamed in and the other members of the party missed me. My mother was frantic. Everyone looked for me in and around the station and ultimately found me near the river bank. I am no somnambulist and I do not know what made me go after that stranger. The train was delayed and I was the cynosure of many pairs of annoyed eyes.
The dance recital I gave at a function presided by the late N.S. Krishnan, the well known comedian, is memorable for the prediction he made about my future career. After the function, Krishnan drew my mother aside and, pointing to me, said to her, “some day your daughter will be a great movie actress.” We thought Krishnan was only joking and forgot all about it. Strange as it may seem, a decade later I got my first major assignment in a film produced my Krishnan.
How I came to join films, however, is a different story. I may tell you at once that it was purely an accident. In 1943, Lalitha and I were on holiday, visiting an uncle in Bombay. One day Uday Shankar, the famous dancer, who was a friend of my uncle, called on him. Talking about dancing, my uncle told Uday Shankar that his two nieces were good dancers, and Uday Shankar asked us to dance for him. We did, although I was quite nervous. Uday Shankar was pleased with our dancing and said he was planning to produce a dance film at Gemini Studios in Madras, and when the idea materialised, he would like us to perform a number in it.
Within six months we got the assignment and we moved to Madras. Here we were in entirely different surroundings and atmosphere. Uday Shankar was an exacting task-master. The way he trained and rehearsed two hundred girls and three hundred boys for his picture “Kalpana” was a scene to remember and a lesson to learn. I began to work hard, and I still work hard, thanks to Uday Shankar!
A bicycle at home reminds me of a near accident I had during the time I attended Uday Shankar’s dance school. I was eleven years old then and used to go on a bicycle to school with my sister. One day as we were riding abreast, my skirt got caught in the sprocket of the rear wheel. I lost my balance and fell. There was a screeching of brakes and an oncoming bus came to a stop only inches away from me. The scolding the bus driver and the crowd that gathered gave me made me put my head down.
We have given many dance recitals in aid of charity and quite a number to entertain the troops. I still recall a performance we gave for the troops in an open-air theatre in bangalore, in the presence of Sardar Baldev Singh, who was then the defence minister. Within a few minutes of the commencement of the show, the power supply failed and the theatre was plunged in darkness. A thunder-shower added to our inconvenience, but the organisers were determined that the show must go on. They lined up a number of trucks whose head-light lit the stage. We were soaking wet, but the show went on and it was a great success.
Lalli got married and decided to quit the stage and the screen. I was at once sad as well as happy. Sad because Lalli would no longer be my partner in dance recitals, and happy because she was getting settled in life. My first performance without Lalli was indeed a distressing experience for me- particularly towards the end, when we did the Geethopadesam, Ragini taking Lalli’s place. Filled with tears, my eyes were looking for Lalli, and it was only when Ragini gave me a pinch that I realized that I must go on with the dance. I must say that the audience appreciated my predicament in the right spirit.
“Filmfare” readers are already familiar with my Soviet memories. However, I can never forget the sea of bouquets, buntings and streamers through which we floated on the stage after our first performance in Moscow. Each item was greeted with loud “Encores” and the audience would not stop clapping until we performed the dance again.
I must acknowledge that life has been a bed of roses for me, with, of course, the inevitable thorns in it. The thorns are the hard work I have had to do from dawn to dusk from my childhood until now. But I have always liked hard work, for I do not believe in remaining without action. In fact, it is the theme of Geethopadesam which I, as Lord Krishna, gave Lalli (now to Ragini), portraying Arjuna, in the final item at every performance.
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