Pooja Trehan

Nana Saheb. What a man. What a loss. I shared a wonderfully warm relationship with Nana Patekar. We didn’t meet nearly as often as I would have liked, but whenever we did, it felt like we’d last met yesterday. He took particular pride in the fact that a fellow Maharashtrian had made a name for himself in photography. There was invariably a warm word of encouragement, inevitably accompanied by a generous helping of his trademark acidic wit. Unpredictable. Intense. Fiercely individualistic. Nana Sahib didn’t merely enter a room. He took possession of it. His presence and aura were quite extraordinary. One of my most cherished memories of him is from what may well have been among his last formal portrait sessions, when I photographed him for my exhibition, HONEST: Portraits of Character. He insisted I come to his farm near Pune to make the pictures. Before the shoot, he wanted to know exactly how many people were coming. Not because he was concerned about the size of the crew, but because lunch would be served. And what a lunch it was. An extensive, delicious, home-cooked Maharashtrian feast. Every single person, from my assistants and spot boys to the drivers, was seated and fed in his main dining area. And there was Nana Saheb himself, walking around the tables, personally serving everyone an extra puri and another helping of his famous mutton. No hierarchy. No fuss. Just extraordinary hospitality from a man who could intimidate an entire film set with one raised eyebrow. After lunch, he proudly took me around his sprawling property, including his gymnasium, where he casually knocked off a dozen tricep dips. Stone cold. No warm-up. At an age when most people consider getting off the sofa a fairly respectable workout. And then came a moment of such spectacularly morbid humour that it could only have been Nana. He showed me a neatly stacked pile of firewood that he’d kept ready for his own funeral. I thought he was joking. He wasn’t. He explained, with complete seriousness, that the wood had been carefully kept dry because wet wood produces too much smoke. And he didn’t want people at his funeral crying because the smoke was getting into their eyes! I laughed till my sides hurt. Only Nana Sahib could plan his own cremation and somehow make it a comedy routine. A phenomenal actor. A voice that defined a generation. An utterly original personality. And beneath that famously formidable exterior, a deeply generous and solid human being. His passing feels terribly personal. Like a punch in the guts. I’m profoundly grateful that I got to make those portraits of him. But even more grateful for the hours we spent together, the conversations, the laughter and the privilege of seeing the man beyond the legend. My heartfelt condolences to Malhar, Neelu ji and everyone who loved him. Rest easy, Nana Saheb. There will never be another quite like you.