Nana Patekar was a star sans glamour. If one phrase could capture him succinctly, it’d be “son of the soil”. It didn’t just reflect in his favourite attire of the kurta and the gamcha but also his rootedness in his Marathi identity and culture, his simple one bhk (bedroom-hall-kitchen) life in Mumbai and his love for farming and all things rural towards which he focused most of his philanthropic efforts through the Naam Foundation that he jointly set up in 2015 alongwith actor Makarand Anaspure.
His rough around the edges, mercurial, far from glitzy personality found an answering reflection in the volatile, capricious, crusty characters he came to be identified with on screen; most of them, like him, driven by fierceness, fervour and outspokenness and a righteous rage.
He first caught the audience eye with the grounded way he captured the angst of an unemployed wastrel in N Chandra’s Ankush (1986).
His popularity among the masses peaked in the zealous patriotism of films Tirangaa (1993) and Krantiveer (1994). His distinctive voice and unmistakable dialogue delivery added to the appeal. In that aspect, he was a true inheritor of the legacy of legendary Hindi film star Raaj Kumar, also known for his declamatory style.
Patekar’s iconic monologues were certainly not about mincing words; in fact, they whipped up the crowd and were byhearted by fans. Like the famous line on communal harmony in Krantiveer which underscores that one can’t distinguish between the blood of a Hindu and a Muslim and if the creator has treated them equally, humans have no right to drive wedges between the two: “Yeh Musalman ka khoon, yeh Hindu ka khoon. Bata ismein Musalman ka kaunsa hai, Hindu ka kaunsa? Banane wale ne ismein fark nahi kiya, tu kaun hota hai fark karne wala?”
Or the sharp barb, in the same film, on how the politicians continue to enjoy power while common people perish: “Ek ek karke sab marenge! Aur yeh neta log kursi par baithkar maza lenge!”
In Tirangaa he warns the villain that things will come to such a pass for him that a person with a small income will drape him in a cheap shroud: “Pandrah sau ki naukri karne waala, ek din tujhe dedhso ka kafan pehnayega.”
The ferocious tirade in Yeshwant (1997) about the helpless, compromised and automated existence of the commoners in the face of flourishing countrywide corruption, is his most repeated albeit transphobic dialogue: “Ek machchar saala aadmi to hijra bana deta hai…Subah ghar se nikalne par bheed ka hissa ban jaate hain, shaam ko ghar jaakar daru peete hain, bachche paida karte hain aur agli subah tak fir ek baar mar jaate hain. Aisa isliye hai kyunki aatma aur andar ka insaan mar chuka hai aur jeene ke liye ghinaune samjhote kar chuka hai. Unchi dukan feeka pakwan, 100 mein se 80 beimaan, fir bhi desh mahaan!”
The nationalistic sentiment was not just in his speech but also in action, having served in the territorial army and volunteered during the Kargil War. An experience he channeled with finesse in Prahaar (1991), a film that he cowrote and directed along with playing the lead the tough disciplinarian Major VS Chavan.
Often his versatility got bypassed in the hullabaloo over his edginess and the theorization that he kept playing himself, role after role. There have been some distinctly different films and performances which seem to have been disregarded amid the more bombastic ones. His early arthouse tryst, notably in Mira Nair’s Salaam Bombay, as an exploitative drug dealer for instance, Diksha (1991) or Arun Kaul’s Hindi adaptation of UR Ananthamurthy’s stinging takedown of brahminism, Ghatashraddha.
There is his bone-chilling breakout performance as the brutal gangster Anna Seth in Vidhu Vinod Chopra’s Parinda (1990) and the gentle sweet show as a philosophical street performer in Aziz Mirza’s Raju Ban Gaya Gentleman (1992), not to forget his hilariously deadpan interpretation of don Uday Shetty in Anees Bazmee's Welcome (2007).
His Marathi films also demand appreciation. As Bhau Galande in Umesh Kulkarni’s Marathi comedy Deool (2011) he stood out as the voice of rationality in the face of a village blinded by faith.
His role of a thespian in Mahesh Manjrekar 2016 Marathi film, Natsamrat, based on the famous Kusumagraj play, was the closest a character could resemble Patekar and vice versa; caustic, candid and a master actor at delivering fiery monologues.
The two unforgettable gems that went against his popular image were Amol Palekar’s charming musical Thodasa Roomani Ho Jaayein (1990) and Gulzar’s Hu Tu Tu (1999). In the former he was the enigmatic Professor Dhrushtadyumna Padmanabh Prajapati Neelkant Dhoomketu Baarishkar who makes you believe in hope and magic. Is he truly a magician or a conman?
In the latter, he is the poet-philosopher, a Dalit street-artiste who sings songs of human rights and social revolution. A performance grounded in the internal than given to external flourishes.
Much as the person and his performances were largely aligned, Patekar’s upright aura and forthrightness took a bad hit in 2018 with actress Tanushree Dutta repeating the charges of sexual harassment against him that she had originally made in 2008. It was one of the cases that sparked the MeToo movement and made it gain momentum in India. While she filed a complaint against him, he denied the charges and sent her a legal notice. In 2019 the case was closed for lack of evidence. But it did dredge out the duality in him, the patriarchal ways and male chauvinism that went hand in hand with Patekar’s philanthropic and patriotic mindset. The son of the soil was also a man of contradictions.
