An Appointment with Mr. Disappointment

My regrets, be it losing loved ones prematurely or missing something narrowly in academia, seem to be one of two kinds.  They are either completely uncontrollable or they seem to be mostly in my hands.  But I slot disappointments in neither of these two categories – I seem to associate the word mostly with expectations.  Of expectations missed by trusted ones…wittingly. 

‘Wittingly’, because I have heard it from at least a few different people that I give my family and my family of friends a long rope.  I would like to believe that I put in sincere efforts in order for people to feel loved, cared for and secure.  I try to channel my father in this respect – he may not always remember people’s birthdays or anniversaries.  But his approach to every relationship is completely customized.  He would focus on the other person’s likes, needs, desires and leave no stone unturned in ensuring that they feel the warmth and security afforded by his affection.  In conversation, he would effortlessly slip in things about the other person’s childhood or remember something from a few decades prior that rarely found a place in anyone else’s memory cells.  Yet by sharing the scent of a memory, he would envelop the person in a fleeting, intangible yet wondrous mist of nostalgia.  If you were ever the recipient of that affection, you would know how special and privileged that feeling was. 

To be regarded as a chip off the old block is an abiding desire of mine.  But I know that my own foundation has been rickety, not rock solid until recently.  Let’s examine the cracks in the chip.

I did have expectations of reciprocity. 

I did want to feel that I was relevant.

I refused to accept that as a person’s circle expanded, that I may be pushed to the periphery. 

I was proud…strike that…I was arrogant about the fact that I had painstakingly walked the extra miles out of my own volition. 

Let me pause.  And let the wiser, more mature part of my brain take over.

So yes, I do have expectations of reciprocity.  But that is okay because I am aware of, respect and even cherish different forms of expression, even the tacit ones.  I’d rather expect reasonable reciprocity rather than try to act selfless and be resentful.

I have a need to feel relevant.  But I know that it is a vibe.  It is either there or it is not.  Relevance can be on shaky ground when people’s interests evolve over time.  But when the foundation of a relationship is genuine respect and regard (even if unstated) for the other person, their evolving areas of interest become automatically relevant to oneself.  Even when there is an innate lack of curiosity, to have some focus on and acknowledgement of the other’s persons likes is a surefire way of completing your half of the relevance piece. If the other half of the piece is empty, the dissonance is bound to be pronounced.

Yes, I refuse to accept a place in the periphery but I know that I am unaccepting of only those changes where I don’t see the beautiful yet ineffable core of a person anymore.  When that core is visible, the periphery seems a splendid vantage point to view the other person’s new world from.  When the core is invisible, the sight of the other person can get frustratingly hazy.

And finally, yes, I have a healthy dose of arrogance about my convictions.  But over time, I believe that a small acknowledgement of extra miles that I put in is what makes me put in those huge extra steps.  As some wise old soul said, acknowledgement is the first decisive step in the path of empathy.  

For better or for worse, I have, in the recent past, distanced myself emotionally from the ones that have disappointed me.  As allusive as this write-up may be, it is a lament resulting from long ropes that got so lengthy that the other person is no longer visible to the naked eye.  As direct but courteous requests for continued relevance fell on deaf ears, I have had to mute my own internal wails that were, beyond a point, deafening.  For now, Mr. Disappointment is being kept at bay.  But not before I came face-to-face with him.  Love him or hate him, you can’t ignore the fact that he is a fantastic teacher! 

Indelible Imprints - Parthiban in Swarnamukhi

As an ardent fan of Parthiban the actor, one of my regrets is that he never had a director that tapped into his abundant potential the way a Mahendran worked with Rajnikanth or the manner in which the late Manivannan collaborated with Satyaraj.  With those duos, you could sense that they got the best out of each other.  Take the proposal scene in Johnny – have you ever seen Rajni cede space and play second fiddle to a female lead so wonderfully?  As spectacular as Sridevi was in the scene, the scene would have fizzled out had Rajni not played such an apt foil.  It was a side of Rajni that was never seen before and rarely seen afterwards.  Parthiban the writer-director has given us some unforgettable movies like the sensational Pudhiya Paadhai, the riveting Kathai Thiraikathai Vasanam Iyakkam or the poignant KudaikuL Mazhai.  But when directed by others, he has rarely been as effective.  Of course, he has given us enough performances as a lead that we know of his skill as an actor.  But it is in a small set of films like Bharathi Kannamma, Azhagi and Naanum Rowdy Thaan that we have seen directors give ample fodder to the talents of Parthiban.  Eclipsing all these films is Swarnamukhi.  Written and directed by KS Adhiyaman (who also gave us that forgotten gem Thotta Chinungi), the film features Parthiban at the peak of his powers.  He sinks his teeth into a role that is tailor made for him – actually, he stitched large parts of the fabric. (He is credited in the titles for his significant contribution to the script.)

Swarnamukhi is the story of the titular character (played by Devyani), the daughter of a devadasi.  Born out of wedlock to her mother (Fathima Babu) and biological father (Manivannan), she dedicates herself to bharatanatyam.  Her mother steadfastly refuses to toe her father’s line and ensures that the fate that felled her does not befell her daughter.  Into Swarna’s life enter two men – Pandian (Parthiban) and Aakash (Prakash Raj) - at vastly different points.  But when the two men face off with one another, an absorbing triangle ensues.  But unlike the typical love triangle where one of the suitors is reduced to a cartoon, the men vying for the same lady love are equally good in their own ways yet equally crazy about the girl. 

Prakash Raj and Devyani have their moments in Swarnamukhi.  But if they were to honestly introspect on this film, they would be the first two people to admit that it is Parthiban that dominates this film from the 40-minute point to the finish. (I couldn’t say “start to finish” since he makes his entry around three quarters into the first hour!)  People typically wax eloquent about just the ingenuity, wit and sarcasm of his lines.  But in Swarnamukhi, he is a magnetic presence.  His body language is so assured, his large eyes so evocative and the vocal intonations pitch perfect that it is impossible to take your eyes off him.  Even his use of props like the bubble gum, Swarna’s slippers, the thaali, the anklet bell and the kari (with which he writes Swarna’s name all over the walls of his room) is expertly purposeful.  Every prop he uses gets a completely unexpected ‘climax’ of its own, none more so than the kari, which is part of the stunning sequence which I am about to describe.

There is a nine-minute sequence which spans across two scenes - Swarna’s mother visits Pandian to request him to gracefully exit Swarna’s life, thereby allowing Swarna and Aakash to unite.  A maelstrom of escalating emotions from anger to indignation to devastation envelops Pandian.  This is where Parthiban summons all his acting chops.  The way he implodes with grief (once Fathima Babu leaves the house) is deeply moving – the manner in which he collapses to the floor is just about the perfect finish to this scene.  In what is an inspired editing choice, we cut straight to Devyani’s house.  The mirudangam that accompanies Parthiban’s entry into the house (slippers in hand) adds to the menace and sets up the scene brilliantly.  What follows is a tirade where Parthiban’s dialogue delivery is seen in its full glory – note the way his voice cracks when he says, “manasu poora nee thaan dee irukkey…”

Click on the play button below to go directly to this sequence:

The movie has a melodramatic, slightly contrived finish (starting at the 2 hr 25 min point in the video above), where Pandian pretends to be a lustful, vengeful devil in order to unite Swarna and Aakash without letting them know of his sacrifice.  Here again, Parthiban skillfully juggles between several notes in his performance, always seamless in transition, never discordant.  The final line of the movie is an apt culmination of this actor’s showcase -- in a standout acting moment, he fiddles with the anklet bell (that is hanging around his neck) as he talks about fading out of Swarna's life.  As the character extricates himself as a point from the love triangle, the actor simultaneously finishes etching an indelible mark in the minds of the viewers.  As an unabashed admirer of the actor, I can only hope that he gets to make a mark in many more impactful pictures.  I have reason to be hopeful because the imprints of a man who has chalked out his own paadhai seldom get erased by time or tide!

Student Teachers

This is an inevitability - I am going to sound much older than I am.  But indulge me for a few moments.  It seems like yesterday that I stepped into a convenience store to buy Alpenliebe chocolates for Krishna.  And now the fellow is a second year student at the prestigious Stanley Medical College in Chennai.  Along the way, he achieved the little task of being the best student of his graduating high school class.

It seems like day-before-yesterday when I sat at the dining table of Radhika Aunty’s house when Krishna’s older sister Samyu decided that she would comport herself as an obedient, studious 3-year old.  She sat on one of the chairs and doodled her way to glory while I tried to convince myself that Aunty was teaching physics and not the language spoken in Greece.  A few minutes into the class, Samyu gently whispered something in her Mum’s ear.  Even gentler was the way Aunty then requested me to write a little less vigorously because I had been shaking the table too hard as a result.  Little Samyu probably wondered if an earthquake was in progress.  A couple of years back when I visited the kid in Germany (where she is studying), she took me to a local eatery for dinner.  I ate slowly, moving my utensils very carefully - the table seemed quite sturdy and immovable.  After all, history doesn’t repeat itself every time.

As I reflect on people that have inspired me deeply and abidingly, I see that I have gravitated towards people older than I am.  People who have seen lady luck turn her back on them only for their grace and equanimity to almost force Ms. Luck to regret her initial decision, and return to them with a sheepish, apologetic grin.  Other ‘inspirations’ have been eminences grises in their fields, excelling as individual contributors but also possessing a certain magnetism to attract and sustain their followers.  Samyu, Krishna and their ilk fall into a third group, whom I’d like to call student teachers.  By virtue of exhibiting certain traits that truly belie their age, they practice the best form of teaching – doing.  Let me explain.

One of the traits these youngsters possess is unconscious assurance.  Relaxed assurance in oneself is a tremendously liberating gift.  It allows one to love their loved ones in a complete manner and in a professional setting, gives them a laser sharp focus on their goals, while not robbing them off a competitive edge.  Whenever I have congratulated them on any stellar accomplishment, there is a certain joy in their voice at being acknowledged.  But in that voice is also an innate humility about their success.  All of this without an ounce of false modesty.  The air of quiet dignity that they exude while making great strides in their academic lives will stand them in great stead as they grow older.  Given how rare this trait can be, it is bound to make their older cousins continue to wax eloquent in blog posts!   

Besides being grounded, the way they stay close to their roots is another quality that makes me glow with pride.  I have seen Samyu and a couple of other kids her age all leave their homeland to study in a foreign nation.  They rightfully enjoy their independence, travel when their schedules permit and in general, immerse themselves in the culture that they find themselves in.  (As a quick aside, during my trip to Germany, it was sheer pleasure to see Samyu give the cabbie directions in German.  He understood her too!)  But they seem to subconsciously know that ‘modern’ is a way of thinking that extends much deeper than the trivialities of fashion choices or partying.  Let me hasten to add that I am not trying to dismiss trifle pleasures – I am just trying to applaud the depth of thinking that these perfectly balanced youth seem to possess.  The way they guard their core while broadening their exposure in multitude of ways, certainly inspires my awe.

Over time, they will realize that due to the strength afforded by their roots and their willingness to daringly branch into new areas that they will not only strike a picture of stability but also be deemed as a provider of a secure shade to their near and dear.  That the children of my guru are ‘teachers’ in their own right is one of the sweetest ironies of my life.  That taste of pride is bound to be sweeter than even those root canal-inducing indulgences manufactured by Alpenliebe!

A letter of supplication

Dear Shoba,

It has been close to two years since I have seen you.  Yet I am engulfed by a strange feeling – as much as I miss your sunny presence, I don’t feel the distance that has separated us irreversibly.  Is it possible that I wake up every day striving to internalize the spirit that personified you?  There are times that I know that I am failing to live up to the Himalayan standards of character or unable to plumb the oceanic depths of generosity and unconditional affection that you immersed your loved ones in.  But you know, I am okay with putting effort into things that you came to you effortlessly.  I mean, how did you know to put yourself in a newly-wed daughter-in-law’s shoes?  And tell me that my apologizing to my wife when I was in the wrong would mean a lot to her.  How did you manage to convey that in just a simple, well-worded line during your first outing with her?  You didn’t sound like you had prepared that line!  Okay, please don’t tell me that that’s why you are you!  I get it, Ms. Modesty.  I am just asking for a little help here!

In a conversation with your friend Anush, I was telling him about how yoga is an effective way to rid oneself off toxins and how that was helping me be more centered and love my loved ones deeper and in a balanced manner.  He smiled and replied, “Shoba never needed yoga because there were no toxins in her.”  I agree with him partially.  But you will be happy to know that I continue to practice yoga every day.  I do put my yoga mat in front of the photograph of yours that is in my prayer room.  As I focus on the rhythms of my breathing, the scents of nostalgia sweep across me.  The fully functional clock seems to be hopelessly inaccurate. 

In the last week of Sep 2016 - it was the ‘last’ week in more ways than one – you were probably wondering in that hospital room where you were preparing for a one-way journey, how the apple of your eye, your lovable daughter, was going to live life with only one parent.  Before I write anything about her, let me share with you what her Dad wrote to me:

"Yes, like every other person, she too cried initially and asked the WHY questions.  But what, I believe, she did with an innocence of a child, is sacrificed her unhappiness for her mother’s happiness.  When she understood that her mother is supremely happy and completely healthy in Heaven now and that she would have continued to suffer if she had survived, she displayed true unselfish love. She stopped focusing on her grief, her loss, her more difficult future and just focused on a wonderful vision of a healthy bright mother in Heaven.  Her happiness for her mother she so loved diminished her own unhappiness."

Am I surprised?  Not really – she is your daughter.  I used to wonder how despite all your health issues you never lost that radiant smile, your willingness to derive happiness from that of others.  I now understand why everyone thought that your eyes were so beautiful – they were a pair of lenses that you used to focus on others.  You smile was perceived as genuine because it went all the way to your eyes – I can never forget the way you received me at the Chennai airport.  Tears rolled out of those same eyes unstoppably when I bid goodbye to you at the end of the trip.  I recently watched a speech by Martin Crowe, one of my favorite cricketers.  He uttered a line to a fellow cricketer which I would like to steal for you – “I thank you for your emotion.”  I know that you were not a fan of the word, “thanks.”  But how else am I supposed to acknowledge the rarity of your purity?  Your daughter at 13 is already showing the same signs of genuineness and generosity.  You did good, Chithi. (I know you would have loved to hear the word ‘Chithi’ a little more; I thought that that was too formal, sorry!)

There was a moment at the Express Mall in Chennai where your little angel behaved just like you.  Actually the whole visit reminded me of you.  She called me a couple of hours before the visit and asked, “Would it be okay if I bring a friend along?”  Just like you, right – I remember you asking your friend Gomes to come with you for a 'family' vacation to Yercaud in 1985.  Yes, I get it – Gomes was family for you.  Similarity #2 – she played air hockey with her friend at the arcade at the mall.  Her friend lost and looked a tad upset.  Immediately, she went and consoled her friend stating that she played very well too.  Trust me, I never had this grace when I defeated a friend at cricket.  (You knew that, didn’t you!)  What was truly amazing to me was that the trip to the mall was to cheer her up following the unthinkable events at the hospital that October.  She had lost her mother a few days prior and yet she didn’t want her friend to feel bad?  I suppose the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.  In May, when Thathama decided to join you, I tried to take a leaf out of your daughter dearest’s book – Thathamma had suffered quite a bit this year ever since her heart attack on Jan 1.  Maybe it was time for her suffering to end.  If as a 37-year old, I had that thought about my 81-year old grandma, it was due to a 12-year old who had that selfless thought about a 49-year old mother.  I reckon that the ability to teach and inspire by doing, by being, clearly runs in the family.  As I said, you did good, my dear.

I wish I could have agreed with Anush fully.  I wish that the physical toxins had the heart to bow down to the purity of your heart and say, “I lose.”  Shame on them for taking you away from us so early.  But I shall continue to pray to you to give me:

Clarity of vision to focus on my loved ones even when I have pain in my eyelids…

Generosity of thought to brim with pride when someone else’s cup of joy overflows…

Kindness of heart that prevents me from causing indelible wounds to others…

Strength of character that nurses my wounds with the balm of forgiveness…

And finally, the willingness to pardon God for making me bereft of your luminous presence for the rest of my life...
But I assure you that within the heart flickers your bright spirit...

I miss you a lot, my friend, my sister, my mother.

With all the love that you gave me,

Ram

Solai

Chauffeur.  I was 18 the first time that I had heard this word.  I had been chatting with an American friend at a driving class in Memphis during my summer break after my college freshman year.  I had lived in India till I had completed high school.  Back home, we used the term 'driver' to refer to a chauffeur.  So, during the course of the conversation, I kept referring to “our driver in India,” much to the amusement of my friend.  I was referring to Solaiappan.

Solai had been part of my maternal grandparents’ household since the early 1970s.  My grandpa was a banker but was also a small-scale industrialist, who owned a small factory that manufactured silencers and battery caps.  In my early years, the ‘factory’ was a shed right opposite our house.  Solai, who had been groomed by grandpa to be a jack-of-all-trades was, at that time, both the senior most employee of that factory as well as the ‘driver’ of the household.  He was very fond of me but would not hesitate to call me out when I was being a brat - that happened quite often!  He would bark at me for wearing soiled clothes and dirty shoes in the car.  I would argue that it was impossible to be impeccably dressed in the sweltering heat after playing cricket in the middle of the day (and in the middle of the road, I might add). 

After watching the Wimbledon finals in 1989, I decided that I would beat Boris Becker when I got the chance.  I never had a middle name but if I had one as an eight-year old, it would have been chutzpah.  My father either appreciated my confidence or indulged his only child or both, but there I was attending tennis classes at Stella Maris. (Yes, it’s a women’s college but there was a tennis court there where classes were held for boys and girls.)  After returning from school, I would pick up my racket, change into a t-shirt and shorts and dash off to the shed, asking Solai to drop me at class.  He would invariably say, “Wait.  I need to finish a few more pieces,” to which I would respond, “Aiyyo Solai, vandhu pannaa piece yenna thaenjaa poidum?!  Tennis-ku late aagardhu.” (For non-Tamil speaking readers, I apologize.  A direct translation is impossible.  Just know that I prioritized tennis over silencers even though the latter helped pay the bills!)  So, in a huff, he would pick up his wallet, driver’s license and listen with understandable annoyance while I would proffer advice on how to drive fast on crowded Alwarpet roads.  I would also, just to needle him, add that if he quit his smoking habit, he would have more time to work on silencer pieces.  

Solai revered and adored my grandfather.  My entire family was overjoyed when he decided to get married in the late 80s.  I vividly remember the time he invited our family to meet his bride-to-be.  It was touching to see the arrangements he had made ahead of the visit.  He apparently insisted that my grandpa be the person to hand him the thaali (an auspicious thread that the groom ties around the bride’s neck) at his wedding, an honor that is typically bestowed to someone that the couple respects deeply.  (Solai and his wife were blessed with two kids and continue to lead a happy married life.) 

But as much as he respected my grandpa, he was extremely candid with him too.  So, like a teacher complaining to a parent about a recalcitrant kid, Solai told him that he wanted to concentrate solely on the factory and asked him to employ the services of a driver whose responsibility was just that.  Solai, in my presence, told my grandpa that the trips to school, my friends’ places and tennis courts were all taking a toll on him.  This was before the time that I drove my bicycle beyond the neighborhood.  Never known to be subtle, my grandpa matched Solai for bluntness– he said to me, “Ramu, unaala thaan Solai vandi oatta maaten-nu sollaran!” (Ram, it’s your fault that Solai wants to quit driving.)  If you thought that I started sobbing, then you are…as wrong as us Kamal fans that thought that Anbe Sivam would be a commercial hit!  I coolly replied, “Yes, Thatha.  A new driver would be good for me too!  Let Solai concentrate on the factory!”  To this day, Solai and I pull each other’s leg about the restoration of his work-life balance back then!  I would also like to think that he was the only thing that stood between me and my Wimbledon trophy. (Come to think of it, delusion could be another apt middle name.)

When my grandpa passed on in ’94, Solai was as inconsolable as some of our family members.  Not surprising because Solai was family.  But, as the pessimists say, all good things come to an end.  So it did with Solai.  A couple of years after my grandfather's death, he quit his job following an unfortunate rift.  I would like to think that had my grandpa been alive, he would have never allowed Solai to quit.  Truth to be told, I didn’t think much about it at the time.  I was just glad that Solai continued to be a part of every major life event of the family, happy or sad.  As delighted as I was when he attended my wedding, I was equally moved to see him at my grandma’s funeral this May.  He inquired, with immense affection, about me and my family, while sharing his memories of my grandmother.  And true to character, he said that I never bothered to invite him for my wedding.  When I gently reminded him that he did indeed attend my wedding, he promptly retorted, "It was Amma (referring to my grandma) that invited me, not you!"  In a strange way, the funeral felt quite complete when I witnessed Solai be one of the people that carried my grandma’s paadai (a stretcher, with bamboo stems, carrying the departed) out of the house.  It was just nice to see that he was part of her final journey.

As I look back at my childhood days, I am glad that Solai was an integral part of it.  In the US, we live a comfortable middle-class lifestyle.  We do all the cooking, cleaning, driving and so on.  In a sense, it is wonderful that chauffeurs and maid services are a bit of a luxury that not everyone can afford.  Some of them that I have met in the US lead much more comfortable lives than our domestic helpers back home.  But most Indian kids that grow up in the US will never experience the warm, extended family vibes that trustworthy household staff provided some of us that grew up in India.  Solai might have quit driving because of me.  But thanks to his presence at my grandma’s funeral, he surely did drive me on a rather nostalgic trip down the alleys of Alwarpet! 

Eyes Wide Open

The nurse opened the door with great alacrity.  She was swift but not rash, opening the door just enough to let herself in.  My grandma, my grandpa’s best friend, my parents and I were a few feet away from the door.  The nurse watched us askance before quickly shutting the door.  While everyone else looked in the direction of the entrance of the hospital awaiting a senior doctor, I saw through the miniscule opening that the nurse had left open for a fraction of a second, a sight that hides permanently behind my eyelids.  Whenever my eyes would shut, the doors of that hospital room would open widely behind them.  Inexplicably, much wider than the actual sight that the nimble nurse permitted me.  It was the sight of the doctor and his support staff pounding on my grandpa’s chest, as he slipped away rapidly. 

He was 61, and in very good health.  He had gone for a walk to his best friend’s daughter’s place, tried to test-drive their newly acquired SUV and in the process, rammed the car into a wall.  His spleen got ruptured and within two hours of this rather freak accident, he was gone.  Just like that.  No warning, no proper goodbyes, nothing.  The sprightly old man who had gone for a walk in the morning was a pot of ashes submerged in the nearby beach by the end of the day. 

Meanwhile, a sea of tears engulfed my grandma.  She was 58 then.  Having married my grandpa when she was 18, they were in their 40^th year of a very happy marriage.  Her wailing lasted days, not hours.  But I misread one thing as inaccurately as an inept stock broker.  I thought that his death was going to crush her.  Far from it.  Within a month, when my family was deep in thought around the future of the factory that my grandpa had owned, she stepped in and said, “It was his labor of love.  I shall be the proprietor.  I may have only finished high school but I will learn the ropes and continue to run this instead of shutting shop.”  That was a moment of great truth to me.  Truths, really.

I could see two things.  Some people have a veneer of strength that obscures a frail inner structure.  Grandma was the opposite.  The tempest that had threatened to demolish her very existence only ended up proving how strong her inner structural foundation was.  The cruel twist of fate that I thought was paralyzing her on multiple fronts was, in fact, strengthening her resolve to stand on her feet and move forward, taking along her fellow sufferers, despite the magnitude of her suffering being much larger. 

The second thing I learned from her was something captured eloquently in the movie, Burnt - “There is strength in needing others, not weakness.”  When my grandpa passed on, my grandma did get a lot of moral and emotional support from family members and trusted friends.  She did share her grief with others.  As a teenager, I shut my eyes only to open a window for the unfortunate incident to play continually in my mind’s eye.  Whereas, my grandma shut the door on grief only after she had come face to face with it.  That she was not averse to getting people’s support and yet very quickly, stepped in to take over my grandpa’s factory showed that she leaned on people, perceiving them as transient pillars of support, not permanent crutches.  There are, of course, some people who possess tremendous inner resolve to deal with crises themselves.  To get back on their feet, they do not rely as much on external support.  That is strength of another kind, but not the only kind.  I say this because there continues to be a popular misconception of people seeking support – of various kinds, be it therapy or personal outreach – as weak.  People need the license to go through tragedy and adversity in their own way.  As providers of support, we only have to help ensure that their wounds don’t turn into indelible scars that incapacitate them permanently.

Last month, my grandma passed on, aged 81.  This time, my eyes were wide open.  I registered my grief, while striving to provide support to my mother and 13-year old cousin who were most affected by this.  I did not have to look far for inspiration – it was hidden in plain sight in our own home until May 22, 2018. 

Goldies: A piece on elderly characters in Tamil Cinema

“Gold is old” – so went my caption that accompanied a snap of a few elderly members of my family, including my late grandma.  No sooner had I sent this picture to my Aunt than she replied with a term of endearment to refer to them – goldies!  Ever since we had that whatsapp exchange, the term stuck with me.  So much so that it made me pick a half-a-dozen characters in Tamil cinema who just meet two criteria!  The characters essayed by the actors must have been elderly, even if the actors themselves weren’t.  And, the characters should have been, in my opinion, well fleshed out, serving as more than just a prop or cheerleader for the lead character.

Kamal Haasan in Indian

Kamal Haasan was no stranger to playing elderly characters.  Kadal MeengaL was released in 1981 when he was just 27!  Of course, in Nayagan (1987), he portrayed an elderly don for almost half the movie with minimal makeup, relying more on body language and voice modulations to bring an old man to life.  But it was in Indian where an elderly character was elevated to an unforeseen iconic status.  “Indian Thatha” actually sounds rather cheesy but I doubt that anyone that actually saw the movie would have said that.  Indian was as much as a Shankar movie as it was a Kamal movie – the taut screenplay featuring a brilliant investigation, razor sharp dialogues (by the great Sujatha) and a sense of grandeur that serviced the plot rather than stand out clumsily were all Shankar in vintage form.  But Kamal did full justice to Shankar’s characterization, exhibiting a sense of panache that was rarely seen in elderly characters.  This scene is one of my favorites, especially the nonchalance with which he combs through his hair with his fingers in the middle of an action sequence!

Srividya in Nee Paathi Naan Paathi

One of Vasanth’s great strengths as a writer is the authenticity he brings to elderly characters.  Right from Keladi Kanmani, Aasai and of course, Rhythm, he has always populated his movies with strong supporting elderly characters, individuals with traits, quirks and flaws that make them three-dimensional.  Some of his finest moments as a writer came in Nee Paathi Naan Paathi where he created a quintet of memorable characters played by Jai Shankar, Sulakshana, Delhi Ganesh, Manorama and Srividya.  In the movie, Jai Shankar is married to Sulakshana but has a child (Gowthami) out of wedlock with Srividya.  Delhi Ganesh and Manorama play the parents of a boy (Rahman) that Gowthami is in love with.  Manorama staunchly opposes the match.  Watch this marvelous 7-min segment.  Srividya’s performance is deeply affecting, especially the way she says, “Morandu pidikathe ra.”

Radha Bai and Judge Rajagopal in Aaha

One of the most lovable elderly couples seen on screen, Radha Bai and Judge Rajagopal were given some funny, heartwarming exchanges in Aaha.  In the opening sequence, they are introduced aptly, succinctly – “Gandhi-ku Kasturba, Sethurama Iyer-ku Lakshmi AmmaL!”  Though the Paati makes fun of the Thatha’s hearing (or lack thereof), the actors play it so sweetly that it never comes across as mean spirited.  They are especially lovely together in the delightfully staged Gokulashtami sequence (that begins at 1:22:15):

‘Pyramid’ Natarajan in Alai Payuthey

Natarajan’s character in Alai Payuthey was one of a kind.  He was neither a martinet that chastises a wastrel son nor a cloyingly affectionate father.  He played an upper-middle class advocate that has abundant self-confidence, bordering on hubris.  He was especially effective in this superbly nuanced sequence (that starts at 5:00) where he lets his self-admitted superiority complex get the better of him.

Chokkalinga Bagavathar in Veedu

The late Balu Mahendra created three unforgettable characters for the greatly underutilized talents of Chokkalinga Bagavathar – Veedu, Sandhya Raagam and Sathi Leelavathi.  Bagavathar was in glorious comic form in Sathi Leelavathi – his explanation of the difference between a brief and a loin cloth brought the house down.**  But Veedu was in a different league altogether.  A tableau of simple human emotions, the movie had several poignant scenes featuring an old man, who simply wants to see his granddaughter build a home. 

This simple scene – the grandpa visits their under-construction house and silently admires it - never fails to make me tear up.  In fact, the actor really isn’t doing much.  But owing to the understatement of emotion and Raja’s tremendous score (from his album “How to Name It”), not to mention Balu Mahendra’s famed natural lighting, this is one of those quiet scenes that speaks volumes of its creator and his collaborators.

Jayaprakash and Thulasi in Pannaiyarum Padminiyum

Modern day Thamizh cinema owes a bit of gratitude to heroes like Vijay Sethupathi and Sidharth.  It is hard to find such assured leading men who concede significant screen space to senior actors.  Though the former and Aishwarya Rajesh have a charming little romance track in Pannaiyarum…, it is undoubtedly Jayaprakash and Thulasi that have the meaty roles, having scene after delicious scene infused with gentle humor and crackling chemistry.  They are so cute as a couple that even the leading actors’ romance fades into the background.  And rightfully so.  This is the seniors' movie and the actors well and truly own it. 

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** - In case you don’t know the joke, watch this video, starting at 5:30 -- https://youtu.be/TgmjuY2eoNI