MIRROR IMAGE: A photo montage of Amrita Sher-Gil

Portrait of Amrita as a young artist

Lots of producers in Britain seem poised to make feature films on the artist Amrita Sher-Gil but why is she so fascinating? Well, an enchanting exhibition (until April 22) at Tate Modern provides some answers. Her photographs suggest that Amrita, born in 1913 in Budapest to a Hungarian pianist mother, Marie Antoinette, and a scholarly Sikh father, Umrao Singh Sher-Gil, had the kind of ethereal beauty that often comes from the marriage of east and west. She could have lived the life of the spoiled rich girl in Paris but instead, her art, often depictions of the female form, drew her back to India — “I began to be haunted by an intense longing to return to India, feeling in some strange inexplicable way that there lay my destiny as a painter”. She took quite a few lovers (not all men) — Nehru was smitten but probably was not a lover. In the end, she married her cousin, Victor Egan. The mystery surrounding her life has grown with the years because, like Marilyn Monroe and Princess Diana, she died young — in her case at 28, probably from a botched abortion. Now considered one of India’s foremost artists, she left behind 150 canvases, many now on display at Tate Modern.

Quite the most stunning is her painting of her younger sister, Indira, lying nude diagonally across a bed. Another, which also shows the influence of Paul Gaugin’s Tahiti period, is a topless self-portrait. Amrita lived in Simla but painted village women from other parts of India, notably the south. She died in Lahore in 1941, where one of her neighbours was Khushwant Singh (in one of his books, he has expressed his disappointment that Amrita, suffering a rare lapse in taste, made no attempt to seduce him).

Amrita’s flame is kept alive by various descendants, including her niece, Navina Sundaram, whose 36-minute film, Amrita Sher-Gil, a Family Album, plays continuously at the exhibition. The only problem with the film, which uses old photographs, letters, diary entries and newspaper cuttings (which are archived by Navina’s brother, Vivan), is that they render Amrita, the woman behind her art, even more intriguing than her paintings.

Today, we have countless femme fatales on the global Indian circuit but none quite like Amrita.

Helpful as I always am to casting directors, I would screen test either Rani Mukherji or England’s Helena Bonham-Carter for the role of Amrita Sher-Gil.

COVER STORY: England this week, India next

Dust to dust

At the Royal National Theatre, I bought not only a copy of the programme (£1.50) for a new play, The Reporter, but also the script for £8.99. It’s a dark affair, dealing with the death of James Mossman, a famous reporter on BBC TV’s flagship current affairs Panorama.

His brother, John, was an equally glamorous foreign correspondent on The Daily Telegraph — one Christmas I remember one or the other (I can’t remember which) at a British embassy party in Moscow, propped languidly against a wall, bow tie undone, lighting a cigarette, cutting quite a James Bond figure. There was heavy snow outside, partly obscuring the lit golden domes of the Kremlin.

Then, one morning, I read James Mossman had been found dead at his Norwich cottage. This gripping play reminds us he left a note: “I can’t bear it any more, though I don’t know what ‘it’ is.”

Although The Reporter harks back to an England that is disappearing — today you don’t have to be patrician or even white to be a foreign correspondent — it provides some understanding of a time when it was not easy for someone like James Mossman to come out as a homosexual.

As with another excellent play, Frost Nixon, based on the interviews given to David Frost by a disgraced President Nixon, the stuff of high drama is to be found in contemporary events, and the British are better than anyone else at making them come alive on stage. Aspiring Indian playwrights should see The Reporter — or, at least, read the script. Popular theatre in the cities of India has got to provide a more stimulating alternative to, say, something like Don or even Rang De Basanti.

Between the lines: Jessica Hines (left) with Alexandra Pringle

Purple prose

On the train home from work, I flipped through the latest copy of Hello!, for its “World Exclusive: The wedding of the year. Elizabeth Hurley and Arun Nayar marry in fairytale English style.”

Surprisingly, the main photographs are not by Mario Testino (who snapped Princess Diana) but by someone called Jonathan Bookalill. The purple prose comes courtesy Hurley’s friend, William Cash.

The pics (57 in all) are great and Hurley and Nayar look very happy indeed. There is a glimpse of Parmeshwar Godrej, wearing enough necklaces and chokers to weigh down a battle ship. Next week the pics from India, especially from Jodhpur, should be even better.

The papers here ran a pic from Bombay of Imran Khan whispering into Hurley’s ear, perhaps something not very flattering about her ex, Hugh Grant. This is personal territory, to be sure, but although Hurley loathes Jemima Khan and is delighted Grant has not married her, Imran, if he is wise, will do his best to win back his wonderful ex-wife. I know Imran will take it in the right spirit if someone points out she was, if anything, much too good for him.

Starry nights

The prediction that Rohit Khattar’s Sitaaray, the Drury Lane restaurant lined wall to wall with images of Indian film stars, would be the place for Bollywood-related events, is coming to pass.

Last week, Jessica Hines used the venue to release her book on Amitabh Bachchan, Looking for the Big B.

Her editor-in-chief at Bloomsbury Books, Alexandra Pringle, appeared mightily relieved because the book “went through stages where we thought the book might never even happen. But not only did it happen but, in the end, Amitabh himself came to love it and, before I hand you over to Jess, I just have to read you a letter I got today. This was at some point a book where we really thought we might not publish. And here we are, today I open my mail, ‘My dear Alexandra, thank you for thoughtfully sending me a copy of Jessica’s book. I take this opportunity to wish the publication every success. Warm regards. Amitabh Bachchan.’”

Which provoked a dry comment from Jessica: “That’s today. What about tomorrow?”

Tittle tattle

Spare a thought for Jay Goodfield, a 20-year-old English builder who invested £250 on a personalised registration plate, J600 DYY, for his black Audi TT but who now fears the sports car will be vandalised.

This is because people think the registration spells “Goody”, as in Jade Goody, of Celebrity Big Brother notoriety.

“Now everyone thinks I’m a racist,” protested Goodfield. “People swear at me, give me dirty looks and I’ve even been threatened by a gang of kids.”

Mind you, there are extenuating qualities about Jade. Although rich enough to have travelled First or Business on her recent trip to India, she went economy instead and mucked in with fellow passengers.

When she landed, what did the Indians do but say, “Welcome to India.”