Lovely Rita

I took her number, hoping to interview her some day.

When I met Rita Mukherjee, I didn’t know who she was.

I was at the bar of Delhi’s India International Centre, with my friend R. Two older women, one in a lofty bouffant and saree, the other with very short grey hair and loose khadi kurta, were scanning the room for a table. R went to the loo. The two women sized me up right as biddable. R returned to find them sharing our table. They forced us to eat their snacks and peremptorily engaged us in conversation.

The short-haired woman, Rita Mukherjee, liked telling intrepid tales of her youth. They were worth telling. She joined All India Radio in the early 1960s, an unusual route for a young woman then. She described herself as strong-willed and outspoken—“ I didn’t take any nonsense, you see”—and narrated with relish, stories of searching for a courtesan singer or being impudent to her seniors. In 1969, she became one of the main producers of AIR’s new youth radio, Yuva Vani, which grew to be an entry point to public engagement for many young people, some of whom went on to become successful media practitioners. Mukherjee famously, and astonishingly, broadcast an interview with Jai Prakash Narain during the Emergency. Like for many such women, getting her first car—a Fiat—was a high point, for the independence, freedom and adulthood it brought.

I was entranced and also incredibly curious about her personal life. She was single— “Marriage was not for me baba. “What about love?” I persisted, even obliquely asking if she were queer. She looked at the ceiling, then said, “Let me put it this way. I managed my pleasures.” I burst out laughing and she looked pleased-with-herself. Her absence of coyness was striking and enjoyable. I took her number, hoping to interview her some day.

Years passed. The pandemic came. My colleagues at the International Association of Women in Radio and Television decided to do a series of online conversations with Indian women from the early years of radio and TV. I dialed the land-line number Rita had given me. She remembered me. Still no cell phone or computer, still feisty, but frailer, at 79, she agreed to be interviewed only if my colleague would meet for drinks at the IIC.

Last week, Rita Mukherjee, was found dead, at 81 in her home. I felt sad, but also relieved that we had at least recognised her life, through that last interview.

It’s not surprising that I didn’t know about Rita Mukherjee before this random encounter. We hear little of the uncommon lives of women, for reasons simple and harsh. Despite the lip service to feminism, our whole culture is conditioned and designed to make us adore men. Women must suffer inordinate pain or achieve dizzying heights to be noticed—preferably while looking a certain way. Because men represent power and achievement, people continue to feel validated by proximity to successful men, and that includes celebrating and serving them. Whereas successful women are often expected to be in service of social good and making other people prosper. The world is not as curious about women’s lives, as about men, and that helps patriarchy thrive.

So here’s to Rita Mukherjee, a most interesting woman, and her uncommon life—and to all the Lovely Ritas out there, whose spirit and brilliance, should be celebrated a thousand times more.

Paromita Vohra is an award-winning Mumbai-based filmmaker, writer and curator working with fiction and non-fiction. Reach her at paromita.vohra@mid-day.com

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