July 12, 1999
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SMITA THACKERAY Simply Smita The rise of the powerful socialite from the ranks of a receptionist has been more than dramatic. By Sheela Raval
What matters is the name and from where she calls. "Madam Smita Thackeray from Matoshree." (Read daughter-in-law calling from Bal Thackeray's house). Backs stiffen, grown men lose their precious poise, commanding corporate voices undergo a tonal shift. Ah, there is a pleasure to such power. Not to worry, she knows it too: "I enjoy every bit of my powerful status, which I never imagined I would have even in my wildest dreams." Take two stories. When she decided to produce her first film, leading diamond merchant Bharat Shah agreed to finance it. Alas, it was not that he identified her as a dormant Jane Campion. Instead, says Shah, "When Smitaji approached me I hardly knew her but Balasaheb's name was good enough for any reference." However, when Haseena Maan Jayegi was set for release on June 25, a serious obstacle -- well, let's say she did not quite perceive it quite like that -- arose. Mann, a film produced by Ashok Thackeria, starring Aamir Khan, was to open on July 2. So Madam Smita gently, so we must assume, requested that since it was her maiden venture it would help if it didn't have to compete for attention with another mega movie. Magic transpired. Mann's release was postponed to July 9 and says Thackeria: "She called us to request the postponement of our film's release and we did it since it was in our best interest." "Best interest", of course, is a valuable term, non-specific as it is. Yet, as Bal Thackeray greys, an entire state sees in his bahu their best interest. It is spoken in hushed tones, a fine mix of reverence and fear, that whether it be the construction of flyovers in Mumbai or any significant project, apparently Madam's approval is a pre-requisite. When Bal Thackeray contemplated an alternative to Manohar Joshi, it was Smita who suggested Narayan Rane's name. As she says, "I share my views with Balasaheb but he takes the final decision. There is no harm in cautioning about certain people who are working against public interest or against our party." Bye bye Joshi. Where there is such unbridled power, there will be, so note her critics, motive as well. Recently, the Revenue Department handed over a 1,720 sq m plot in Andheri to Smita's Mukti Foundation for a cultural centre. That it was land previously reserved by the Maharashtra Housing and Development Authority for a shopping centre that would earn them Rs 50 crore was irrelevant. That Rane holds the Revenue and Forest portfolio is clearly just one of nature's strange coincidences. Smita couldn't care less. She is just following her destiny. Who knew that one day this receptionist-cum-telephone operator with Mopak Overseas Recruitment agency would blossom into Maharashtra's most powerful woman? Well, her mother Kunda Chitre did. "She was always ambitious and hungry to get what she wanted. Today as fate would have it she has found the right atmosphere to flourish." Blame it on circumstance. Marriage to Balasaheb's second son Jaidev in 1987 was the first step. The year 1995 the next. The tragic deaths of Meenatai, wife of Bal Thackeray, and of son Bindumadhav Thackeray in a car accident, left the family floundering. Till Smita stepped in to run the house. Recalls Smita, who is estranged from Jaidev since the mid-'90s: "My husband was attracted to other women and left me with my children. I found our future very bleak and in a time of distress my father-in-law supported me and asked me to stay back." Jaidev left home three years ago but Smita lives on the first floor of Matoshree, Balasaheb on the second. The transformation from housewife to powerful socialite has been swift. If there's a filmi party tomorrow be assured the guest list begins with her name. When she throws a charity show be assured everyone, from Shah Rukh Khan to Amitabh Bachchan, will be there. Dressed in designer saris or ghagra-cholis whose price tags are superfluous, her hair "highlighted", photographed glamorously by studio photographers like Daboo Rattnani, she flits in and out, always fashionably late. That's in the evenings; the mornings are for serious business. Between 11 a.m. and 1 p.m. each day, she and Balasaheb meet with visitors. She scrutinises the list, explaining, "I am a bridge between Saheb and people who come for help because he is aging and can't possibly meet all of them." On occasion she sits in on meetings, on occasion she receives visitors alone, sorting out grievances and dispensing favours, once again her voice on the phone stiffening backs. Film producer, housewife, add to the list social worker. Her Mukti Foundation promotes awareness about aids and has raised funds for other causes like cyclone relief in Gujarat and jawans battling in Kargil. Men like Pramod Navalkar celebrate her journey to power -- "she seems clear about what she is doing" -- but others, demanding the protection of anonymity, are less effusive. Says a Shiv Sena leader: "Just being close to the party chief does not qualify her as a leader. She should limit herself to being a household manager." Voices in the film industry too softly complain of highhandedness and there is loose talk that her fund-raising flirts with coercion. No way, she replies. "I have never pressurised anyone to oblige me. If they feel scared it is not my problem." When a young woman from close to nowhere rises to such prominence tongues will wag. Smita, remember, couldn't care less. God, at least in Maharashtra, is on her side. Says Balasaheb: "She is a very brilliant learner, good observer and adventurous person. She has swum against the current and faced all odds of life bravely." The tongues better wag quietly. For Smita Thackeray from Matoshree is here to stay. |
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It does not matter if you haven't seen her,
for she is not physically commanding and uses her elegant glittering heels to push her
past 5 ft. It does not matter if you have not met her, for she exudes no apparent charm, a
picture instead of unerring authority. It does not matter if you do not know her voice,
quiet sometimes, imperious other times, the English smudged by a familiar Marathi accent. 
