Naidu Leela - Leela: a patchwork life

T he last time I saw Leela Naidu, she was sitting up in bed. She had on a faded nightgown and the bedclothes, relics of a visit from one of her grandsons, sported cheerful cartoon animals. But she extended her hand with the grace of a dowager duchess in exile and smiled upon me. The room brightened and the world turned into a gracious and charming place for a moment.

The first time I saw Leela Naidu? I dont think any forty something man can remember when he first saw Leela. She was there, an iconic image, a presence, a reminder of what feminine beauty could be about, if it were not saturated and enhanced and made to look like a parody of itself. But it wasnt just that. Beauty, as she points out somewhere in the book we wrote together, is simply one of those gifts of deoxyribonucleic acid. Its an accident, a happy accident, but nothing more than that. The lives of hundreds of supermodels and starlets show that you can be beautiful and it wont get you much more than five minutes of fame. Leela was different because she had a very sharp mind behind that porcelain face with its flawless skin and greying head of hair. She was different because she knew that when she entered a room, she owned ithow could she not know? She had been beautiful since the time she was eight years old or thereaboutsbut she never let you think you were a devotee, even if you were looking at her with your heart in your eyes. She turned her attention on you and she made you feel that her beauty was a special gift to you, that she was only the steward of its ability to make you think of chocolate and jazz, of the inside of a shell and the morning monsoon sky.

The first time I met Leela Naidu was on 1 may 1990. I had gone to interview Dom Moraes about a book of poetry, Serendip; it had been published in a limited signed edition, a publishing first in India. But more importantly, it was his first work in verse after an interval of nearly seventeen years. I was writing for the Free Press Journal, then edited by Janardhan Thakur. He was a friend of the family and when I arrived, he was sitting with the Moraeses. I had heard much about these two: Dom and Leela, Leela and Dom.

Un coup de foudre, was how an old-timer described their first meeting. She came to a party with Zafar Hai. Dom was alone. Dom and Leela looked at each other and left together. That was it.

Nonsense, said Leela, when I told her about this. But so many people have told me this story that I have put it in as one of those Leela legends. She has told her own version of the Dom and Leela legend in these pages, with a curious mixture of affection and contempt so I wont belabour the point. Anyway, at that time, it was said to be a marriage made in heaven. But I could smell unhappiness in the air.

How could they be unhappy? She was one of the most beautiful women in the world, according to Vogue. He was one of the most talented of poets and writers. They had known each other since they were infants. He was writing poetry again. She had acted in Electric Moon, said to be something of a critical success. They were living in Sargent House, a beautiful colonial building on a quiet street of Colaba Causeway, all high ceilings and teak furniture, paintings by S.H. Raza and Jatin Das on the walls. Selvam, faithful retainer, and the only Domestic help in Mumbai to be described as a major Domo, turned out perfect coffee for all of us. It was served in elegant crockery and the sum total paralysed me. I was sure I would commit some awful social faux pas by virtue of just being there.