Missed Spotlights #7: Chokkalinga Bagavathar in Veedu

“Are Tamil indies finally having a moment?” tweeted film critic Baradwaj Rangan.  Looking at his tweet, I was feeling rather wistful thinking of fabulous filmmakers such as Balu Mahendra and Mahendran.  And how they would have thrived and been even more prolific had a funding system been in place for low budget, honest, non-mainstream films.  I wonder if Balu Mahendra would have ever felt the need to make ‘commercial compromises’ such as item numbers in any of his films.  I would like to think that even some of the subjects (freemakes such as Julie Ganapathy and Rettai Vaal Kuruvi) that he would have chosen would have been better.  Most importantly, we would have gotten to see more films that showcased artistes who were superb talents yet didn’t quite fit into the commercial mold.  An artiste like, say Chokkalinga Bagavathar. 

Thanks to Balu Mahendra, we got the opportunity to see him in two classic films, Veedu and Sandhya Raagam and in a hilarious avatar in the comedy classic, Sathi Leelavathi. (You have not lived till you have seen him contrast an underwear and a loin cloth.  The former is “wear and tear” and the latter is “tear and wear!”)  But the film where I fell hook, line and sinker for his spontaneous, measured acting style was Veedu. 

In Veedu, he does not just portray a grandpa who is affectionate.  Balu Mahendra writes his Thatha as a three-dimensional human being who is funny, caustic, even angry in a couple of instances.  When Archana suggests to him that her partner (a delightfully casual Bhanu Chander) will aid her in her efforts to build their house, he scoffs at her.  When she wants to sell jewelry, he chides her and barks that he will hear the proposal no further.  But best of all are the scenes where he mixes sagacity with humor.  When the kid sister, in the middle of the road, stops walking because her older sister refuses her a room for herself, he gently ribs her, “Baaga Pirivinai elaam apram paathukalaam.  Mudhal-la veedu kedaikkatum!” 

They say that one’s eyes are the windows to the soul.  It is one thing to, in real life, feel for something and reflect it in our eyes.  It is another matter altogether for an actor to internalize the emotions in a character that they are essaying and project it in their eyes.  And Bagavathar was an expert at it.  And one has to look no further than his final sequence where he visits the house as it is being built.  As he is about to step into the house, he quickly stops himself and steps in with his right leg first (for auspicious reasons).  It is such a common practice that it makes one smile.  His smile as he walks the house is so gentle and so moving because we have seen the travails of the family till then.  The way he expresses his gratitude to the construction worker Manga (Pasi Sathya) is deeply affecting.  Notice the way he exclaims, “Manga!”  And the way he thanks her is devoid of the artificiality that is unfortunately too well known to mainstream Tamil Cinema.  This entire sequence is such an acting tour de force whose impact lingers indelibly.  When he passes on, it is impossible to not sob along with Archana (who turns in a stellar performance, herself).

Click on 'Play' to go to the house entry sequence:

Actors like Chokkalinga Bagavathar were rarely given their due in Tamil Cinema.  Plum roles eluded them somehow.  We can only rue the fact that they didn’t have the luxury of an indie film environment or an active parallel cinema movement to provide fodder for their enormous talents.  But I suppose we can look at the cup (of joy, offered by their works) half-full and be thankful for at least a limited set of films that stand the test of time.  And Veedu certainly is a timeless arthouse classic.  While the Bagavathar character never got to live in the house built in this film, it is his presence that fills Veedu and our hearts permanently.

Wrists and Risks: A fanboy's perspective on Mohammad Azharuddin

Feb 8^th, 1993.  I was supposed to have been in a cheerful mood, but I was feeling and acting rather crabby.  It was my Mom’s birthday.  And my Dad had promised to take us to dinner at a restaurant at Park Sheraton.  I loved the food there but neither the birthday celebrations nor the promise of a sumptuous dinner had remote appeal.  The reason for my irritability?  I couldn’t get to see the Indian cricket team in person!  What exactly made me feel that sense of privilege and entitlement despite having no personal or professional connections to the team?  Blame my grandpa’s brother, whom I referred to as CT.

After returning from school at around 3 pm, I had called CT to get his thoughts on India’s prospects in the upcoming Test at Madras.  After all, India had won the first Test in Calcutta handsomely.  The man whose captaincy – and arguably, his place in the team – was in jeopardy, had flicked, caressed and driven the hapless bowling attack for a glorious innings of 182.  That man, of course, was Mohammad Azharuddin.  CT casually said to me that a friend had mentioned that the Indian cricket team was at the Chola Sheraton hotel and that Azhar and others were making themselves quite accessible to fans.  In a rather hurried, impolite manner, I said, “Seri CT, phone-a vei!” (“Okay CT, hang up!”)  I looked up Chola Sheraton in the telephone directory and called the hotel reception desk.  The receptionist ensured that I received prompt karmic comeuppance – “They are not here.”  I just barked, “Hello, hello!”  The guy had long hung up! 

I now had the rather onerous burden of accompanying my parents to dinner, for my Mom's birthday, at a fancy restaurant.  As I walked into the hotel, I saw a tall, rather familiar-looking gentleman clad in a cream-colored shirt, his khakis neatly tucked in.  It was Javagal Srinath!  Shrieking like a kid (I suppose I was a kid; I was 11 then) I screamed, “Appa, adhu Srinath pa!”  Never one to be shy, I just went up to him and said that I was a huge fan of his. (Looking at my rotund structure, I am sure he was left with no doubt.)  Less than 22 yards ahead, I saw The Indian Cricket Team gathered around a table next to the pool.  Zero security, I might add.  In the middle was a cake and the captain who was celebrating his birthday.  Amidst this euphoric feeling, I also had the time to think, “CT, it was Park Sheraton, not Chola Sheraton!” 

I was overjoyed to get the autographs of Srinath, Sachin Tendulkar, manager Ajit Wadekar (who gently asked me if I bowled or batted.  Thank heavens, he didn’t ask me if I did either well!) and of course, Azhar.  I wished him a happy birthday with 182 times as much as excitement than I wished my Mum.  In that typically rushed manner, he thanked me and obliged me with an autograph, even indulging me in my request to make out the autograph to my name.  Suffice to say that I had trouble sleeping that night.

Years later, in 2000, I had trouble sleeping one day too.  In 1993, I was so wired.  In 2000, I felt electrocuted.  When I read in the papers that Azhar had been found guilty of match-fixing, the cricketing part of my heart crumbled into 182 pieces.  The man whose wristy strokes had given me much pleasure gave me so much pain now that my own wrists would have shown no pulse.  Of course, I was not foolish enough to think that every game that India had lost was thrown by Azhar.  But the innocence of my cricket had been demolished irreversibly.  I felt cheated, not out of money but of pure emotion and unbridled passion that I had for the game.  Suddenly cricket didn’t matter anymore.  At least not that day.  It took a combination of the old guard of Srinath, Sachin and Kumble along with the younger lot of Ganguly, Dravid and Laxman to gradually restore faith and joy in the game for me.

I am neither a legal expert nor someone with inside information on the match-fixing scandal.  I choose to believe, based on what I have read and heard, that Azhar indeed had indulged in match fixing.  I may be wrong, I don’t know.  But I would rather not let affection for the sport or joy that he gave me as a batsman cloud my judgement.  I choose to believe that he had fixed matches.  And for that, I felt – and continue to feel in a residual manner- hurt, angry and let down in equal measure.  The Indian cricket fan of the 90s was already used to the disappointment of the team faring badly and unpredictably especially when the team traveled overseas.  When we went through defeats, there was a sense that sooner or later this team of clearly talented individuals would click as a unit rather than rely unreasonably on the genius of Sachin Tendulkar.  Azhar the batsman, was someone who would surprise me, frustrate me and infuriate me all at the most unexpected of times.  Even Eden Gardens, his favorite ground, was not immune to this unpredictability.  To me, the fateful 1996 semi-final was not lost when Sachin got out for a masterful 65.  It was when Azhar got out for a duck.  Nevertheless, hope never sank for true-blue fans like me until 2000.

The Azhar who had scored a scintillating 93 in a losing cause against the Aussies in the 1992 World Cup.  The Azhar who had set the Hooghly river on fire with his 109 against the Proteas in 1996.  The Azhar who had brilliantly caught Cummins off Sachin's bowling to seal a tie against the West Indies in 1991.  The same Azhar who gave the ball to Sachin two years later to steal the Hero Cup semi-final.  Above all, the Azhar whose autograph I treasured more than those money bills that swayed him towards match-fixing.  When he took risks as a batsman, sometimes he failed.  Many a time, he succeeded in demoralizing the opposition attack and delighting cricket connoisseurs.  When he took those morally repugnant risks in the world of match-fixing, the means were not to an end that served anyone besides himself.  But the pain that he ended up projecting onto cricket fans spread far more aggressively than any virus that could cause a pandemic.  These thoughts all co-exist uncomfortably in my mind.  And that is because both the ecstasy and the despair were real.  

Happy birthday, dear Azhar.  It was nice to have met you in 1993.  Thank you for the autograph.  I just wish some memories hurt less.

Rainbows are rare

A few days ago, I happened upon a tweet from an online friend.  I could tell that his cup of contentment was brimming, and unexpectedly so.  Did he win a cash prize?  Did an underdog team that he rooted for, win a game?  Did he bump into a celebrity?  No, no, no.  Someone close to him had shared something deeply personal and sensitive with him and he felt honored as a result.  His tweet made me smile.  Sometimes that is all it takes to make us feel good about this world, right?  That we matter to someone in a way that they matter to us.  As I reflected more on his tweet, I realized that the feeling that he described was an important one.  That the sentiment he expressed was something I felt the urge to dwell on.  Why was that so?

Be it technological innovations or tools that enable increased connectivity, they are only what we make of them.  They ‘enable’ connectivity, they don’t make the connections.  I could have access to a friend at the touch of a button on my phone.  But it is up to me to make time to chat or talk, to send a message or place a call.  Bleedingly obvious?  Yes.  Do we think about it enough?  I don’t know, you tell me.  This is a fast-paced world, no doubt.  As director Cheran beautifully expressed in a scene with Sneha in Autograph, we spend an overwhelming majority of our waking hours to earn for our sustenance.  As work hours expand, as commitments increase, as distances grow, it becomes triply difficult to truly make the time to talk with and listen to people that had once been a much more integral part of our lives.  When we shared a school, college, workplace or at least a reasonably proximal place of existence, the amount of time spent was something that we didn’t have to work towards with much difficulty.  Circumstances favored us. 

As distances grow, the heart is supposed to grow fonder.  In reality, the mind becomes busier.  Noble intentions notwithstanding, our actions seem to focus on the present, our roles and responsibilities personally and professionally.  The people that once formed a part of our core might still feel very important to us but the reality is, they are in a concentric, outer circle.  Even if for simple reasons such as logistics and distance, they are in an outer circle even if we convince ourselves otherwise.  But here is the silver lining.  At the center of these concentric circles is our core, our character and the values that we stand for.  For those people physically distanced from us, if we truly care for them and genuinely want them to feel a sense of belonging, we can indeed do it.  It requires time and commitment but it is not impossible. 

What I am about to say now is not meant to be a one-size-fits-all pronouncement.  It is what I believe in.  For me, to not have a shared present is a gaping lacuna that cannot be filled by once-in-a-blue moon meetings.  I know of a lot of people that say that even if they meet someone after five years, they can pick up from where they left off.  I don’t think I have ever been able to develop that mindset.  I agree that chemistry of a strong relationship can be rekindled in one special moment – a laugh, an anecdote, a hug.  But when the transience of that colorful rainbow is preceded and succeeded by periods of darkness, it is hard for me to just bask in the fleeting beauty of the moment.  I prefer the constancy of a sky- as nondescript as it may be, it has more permanence. 

So, how do we evoke the feeling of being there for a person when we are not there, physically?  The answer is in my question.  It is by being there.  It is by sharing meaningful moments – thank you, technology; you have a role here – inclusive of some highs, some lows, some laughs, some memories.  Just something that is beyond a mere show reel of highlights of our lives, the kind of which floods social media platforms.  By sharing meaningful moments from our lives, we do two things – we give the other person a sense of importance.  And by sharing, we might, in fact, spur the other person to open up about something, whatever that may be, that they might not have otherwise shared.  For someone to speak up, they must have the unconscious assurance that the other person is listening with their ears and their heart.  I will hasten to add that I do believe in the saying that “there are certain chapters in our life that we don’t want to read aloud.”  There will be “chapters” that we hold private for a variety of reasons.  That goes without saying and that is why I said, "some" highs and lows, not 'all'.  But if the other person has no access to any meaningful chapters in our ‘book’, then I wonder whether what is shared is a book or merely a cover.

As I reflect on my dear friend who passed away unexpectedly three weeks ago, I am grateful that in his short life, he gave me the strong sense that I mattered.  It is the same feeling that made my online friend tweet about someone who had just shared something personal with him.  These are the relationships to cherish, to savor, to salute.  Because, at times, life feels short.  Literally so.  In the case of my friend, he was never the rarity in my life that was a rainbow.  He was the sky that watched over me during times of sunshine and gloom.  Now that he has left the earth, I can continue to look up at the sky, knowing that he is continuing to watch me from up above. 

Big Shoes to Fill - A tribute to my dear friend Dhyans

When some people pass on, I get the strong, unshakeable feeling that the ideal person that could nurture me through the grieving process is that person itself. The magnitude of the loss and enormity of the vacuum created by them are so large that only that person – in their absence, their memories – will help gradually fill the void over time. That is exactly how I feel now that my friend since second grade has left me prematurely, irreversibly. While people’s views on death might be variable, could we agree at the outset that 40 is no age to go?

Ramadhyani Narayanan – Dhyans, to me - was an incredibly important person in my life. We were classmates in Chennai from 2^nd grade till the 11^th. After we finished school (1998), we had never lived in the same city. Our respective journeys took us to places such as Memphis, Irvine, Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, Hyderabad, Dubai, Mumbai and so on. Never were we in any of those cities together except for when we visited each other in a couple of these places. I don’t know if the lack of proximity in fact made us more ‘responsible’ as friends. We never, ever lost touch with one another. Through our respective life experiences - joys, lows, unfettered elation, unbearable despair – I just knew that there was this fellow that I could always count on. And let me hasten to add, this was a comfort that he gave me even before technological conveniences such as Whatsapp existed.

The Dhyans that I befriended in 2^nd grade was not the Dhyans that I interacted with recently. Of course not, you might think. He was 7 then. He turned 40 this year. What I meant was that I have had the sheer luxury of seeing different faces of this marvelous person over the different phases of our lives. He has, at different times, been an impish guy, a happy-go-lucky chap, a daredevil, a risk taker, an insouciant fellow and, in recent times, an incredibly mature, thoughtful person whom I could turn to for measured, personalized advice on any topic. The golden thread that tied the different knots in the story of our life had been his understated affection and immense kindness. He was incapable of meanness. Read that line again. The guy did not have an unkind bone in his body. And if you knew that, his ‘what you see is what you get’ approach to relationships was impossibly endearing, never infuriating.

Two stories that I shall share will hopefully reveal both the lighter side and the more thoughtful side of Dhyans.

The first one happened in November 2005 when we had gone to a mutual friend’s wedding reception in Bangalore. We had traveled as a big gang by train to Bangalore. And while returning, only the two of us were traveling. We had never traveled by air together and we decided to indulge ourselves. The morning of the return flight, instead of preparing to go to the airport, we went to the open ground in our friend’s apartment complex to play cricket! We knew that we were cutting it close but how could we possibly miss a game of cricket? We didn’t.

I am happy to report that I was the first to signal that we were behind the eight ball - not in terms of run rate in the game that we lost - in terms of preparing for our air travel. Dhyans could care less. Not only did he want us to finish the game but also insisted that we eat the piping hot breakfast that our friend’s Mom had lovingly prepared for us. Bangalore road traffic and two hours later, “Boarding closed, gentlemen” was the unambiguous verdict from the airline official. Did that faze Dhyans? Nope. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “Vidra, train pidichikalaam!” And off we went to the train station and hopped onto a train whose every junk food item we tasted by the time we reached Chennai hours later. In hindsight, I am just glad that I got to spend six hours with him on the train rather than one on the flight. Life is too short to not be shared enough, you know.

The second story that I would like to share is from 2018. My grandma was in a bedridden state following a massive heart attack. I was seeing Dhyans after a few years. He mentioned to me that he would come to my place at a certain time. I had stepped out only to return a little late. Dhyans was already at my place. I saw his big boots outside the house but couldn’t spot him in our living room. A few seconds later, I saw him by my grandma’s side, gently giving her palms a massage because she had been experiencing excruciating pain. It is not just the gesture that touched me but the casual, unfussy style in which he said, “Dey, Thathama thinks that your massage is no good!” And he turned towards my grandma asking for her confirmation, which she happily gave him. And for the rest of that trip of mine, whenever Dhyans was in the house, he was my grandma’s unofficial physical therapist, exhorting her to do stretching exercises in his absence and assuring her that she would convalesce. She didn’t recover, passing away two months later. But the fact is that Dhyans had alleviated her pain in a manner only he could. Did I say he wore big shoes? Yes, not shoes that can be filled easily.

I constantly complain how the saturation of social media makes us want to just shed spotlight on the peaks of our lives. Dhyans never had time for that kind of superficial brandishing. He was much too deep for that. He wanted to share with and partake in the heights and depths of people whom he trusted. And what more, he extended that kindness to my entire family as well, not just my grandma.

I am grateful you existed, Dhyans. You were one of a kind. Thank you for being there with me and for me till your last day. You know, I could get through this phase better only if you were here.

Rest in peace, my friend, my well-wisher, my brother.

Tamil (Film) Matrimony: A light read on wedding scenes in Tamil Cinema

Courtrooms.  Train Stations.  Wedding Halls.  These three are arguably the oft-visited locations for climactic sequences in Tamil movies since its inception.  I suppose that in their own way, they give writers and directors a setting to heighten the dramatic tension.  A while ago, I had written about the different ways in which trains had been utilized in the movies.  It’s time to show wedding sequences the same love.  As I began to reflect on wedding scenes in Tamil movies, I realized that they spanned the gamut from sublime to hilarious to downright ridiculous.  Hop on.  Let’s take a fun ride to a wild variety of settings – caves, churches, temples and more!

The hilarious:

Sundar C has had a checkered career, headlined by some undisputed comedy classics like Ullathai Allitha but also marred by clunkers like Action and Ambala.  Janakiraman is a rather hilarious but sadly forgotten comedy film of his.  The wedding sequence is an extremely well-choreographed farce, with some rib-tickling lines, my favorite being Manivannan’s exasperated comments to the priest.

The ridiculous:

If you were an ardent Tamil movie fan, you would have seen this coming.  Chinna Thambi would sing in a dulcet voice for every occasion from a baby’s birth to an oil bath. (I am being factual, not facetious.  The situation for the “Uchanthala” song was three muscular men taking an oil bath!)  Yet the guy ties the sacred thread around the heroine’s neck but doesn’t realize that he is marrying her.  If you find this sequence unintentionally funny, for a real skewering, you must check out S Ve Sekar’s spoof, Periathambi.)

The dramatic:

From Vidinja Kalyanam to Thaali Pudhusu, there are films that extend the wedding connection right up to the title.  Scores of films over the decades have utilized the wedding hall setting for dramatic impact.  The dialogue-less climax of AvaL oru Thodarkathai is a masterful piece of direction by K Balachander.  But to me the ‘dramatic’ wedding scene that I find to be the best staged and the most touching is the one directed by his disciple Suresh Krissna, in Aahaa.  The wedding takes place in a house, not a wedding hall.  Every character, big or small, gets an opportunity to shine.  Sometimes, true, enduring beauty lies in minutiae.  Among all the beautifully written vignettes, the Thatha’s inquiry to the hero is a luminous gem of a moment that is as unexpected as it is poignant. 

The coolest:

Strains of Mangalyam Thandhuna… has accompanied many a wedding but when it’s set to tune by AR Rahman, directed by Mani Ratnam and captured by PC Sreeram, it is hard to find something cooler.  A surreptitious wedding has never made one grin harder than the one in Alaipayuthey. 

The romantic:

When the wedding guest Kamal Hassan hollers, “NANCY!” at a church in the middle of Nancy's wedding, you know that her bridegroom doesn’t stand a chance.  He didn’t!  Of course, the girl eloped in full view of her family and the guests! 

I know that this scene is a straight lift from The Graduate.   Nevertheless, the charming screen presence of Kamal Haasan, ably supported by LV Prasad and Y Gee Mahendra, makes this a truly special finish to a delightfully sweet romance.  Raja Paarvai didn’t get the love that it deserved at the time of its release.  But 39 years later, the film has aged as gracefully as its lead actor.

The registrar office:

I think people that get married at the registrar office owe a debt of gratitude to Tamil Cinema for showcasing it, normalizing it, even romanticizing it!  There are far too many registrar office sequences like the ones in Aboorva Sahodarargal, Aasai, Vaali and Kaadhal that have carried incredible emotional and dramatic heft.  But to my knowledge, the first ever Tamil movie scene at a registrar office was in Nenjathai Killathey.  Suhasini plays the reluctant bride-to-be.   Her brother Sarat Babu is accompanied not only by his wife but also a woman with whom he shares a platonic but misunderstood relationship.  Ashok Kumar’s framing is exquisite – the grilled window separating Sarat and the lady symbolizes an almost invisible barrier separating them.

The sublime:

Didn’t I mention a wedding in a cave?  As surreal as it may sound, it is one of the most magnificent emotional highs that I have experienced in a Kamal Haasan film.  Everything about the scene coheres.  Right from Balakumaran’s poetic explanation of “pournami” (“Manasu neranja naaL”) to Roshini’s response to Kamal’s inquiry about the rituals, everything fits into what is a perfect culmination of Guna’s inchoate yet taintless love for his ‘Abirami.’  It would have been a shame had their union been showcased in any conventional manner.  Because it is not a “manidha kaadhal” after all.

And that’s it for the year, folks.  Happy New Year!

Guest post, by Aleida Rosete: Escape from Cuba

In these times when we have all been exposed to family separation due to COVID, I want to share a true life experience. This is my experience and am sure that there are thousands like it that took place in the 1960s. My parents did the most unselfish thing that they could ever have done to ensure that their two precious daughters were not indoctrinated into the Communist thoughts. For, you see, my family lived in Cuba in the 1960s when Castro came to power. My parents immediately recognized that the regime was not one under which they wanted to live and not a system to bring up their daughter. They decided to process the papers to get our visas to come legally into the United States – the land where opportunity and freedom existed. 

My sister and myself were given the ability to leave Cuba; however, my parents were not granted this permission – they were to come sometime later at an unknown date. Concurrently, my godmother and her son (my cousin) had presented their papers and were granted the ability to leave the country. My sister (6 at the time) and myself (9 at the time), along with my godmother and cousin, were able to proceed with getting the departure dates ready. My parents were strong, staunch individuals (I am not sure that I would have been that strong) who took us to the airport and had to leave us to go into the “pecera” (the fish bowl) by ourselves with my godmother and cousin. They had spoken to my sister and I the night before and told us that they were not coming with us and that my sister had to listen to what I was telling her to do.  This was the day I became an adult and knew I had a real responsibility for my sister’s well-being. 

The Pan Am plane came and was being prepared for our flight to Miami. Mom and Dad would come by the “pecera” and blow kisses and hugs through the glass which, of course, we returned. We had a short flight to Miami. My godmother and cousin deserted us by the luggage carousel – can you imagine discarding two helpless little angels, not looking back to see what would happen to us. My father had a good friend in Miami who went to the airport to meet us and wondered where my godmother and cousin had gone. He and his wife were in charge of the teenage housing for one of the Catholic refuge camp that had been opened for children being sent to the US from Cuba by themselves. Thank God for their being at the airport. They were granted approval to bring us to the refuge camp and keep us under their care. This was during the celebration of Christmas (Little Kings Day), so they ensured that we celebrated as if nothing had changed. But, it had – my parents weren’t there and we had no household to claim. 

Within a week, my sister and I were given a ‘scholarship’ to a Catholic Orphanage in Ohio. Within a matter of two weeks, we had become individuals in a foreign country not knowing the customs or the language and living in an orphanage even though we were not orphans. 

We reunited with our parents much later. But that topic is for another write-up!

***

Ram's note - Aleida, thank you so much for sharing your deeply moving, immensely inspirational story of humanity amid adversity.  Your amazingly positive spirit is something that I shall continue to be in awe of.  Thank you for giving me the honor of posting your story for the blog.  

With much affection and admiration,

Ram

Missed Spotlights #6 - Savitha Reddy's voice work in Parthen Rasithen

More so than has been the case with other dubbing artistes, Savitha Reddy has been one whose work has received a fair share of recognition in the past 20 years.  She shot into prominence with her astounding work behind the mic for Simran in Vaali.  Simran had essayed an incredibly complex role, that of a woman caught between an extremely good man and his twin-brother, a lustful beast.  The character’s heart was filled with love for the former and (rightful) contempt for the latter.  And Savitha’s voice had played no small role in helping bolster the impact of Simran’s performance.  But to me, the film that stands out as the best testimony of the quality and power of her work is Saran’s Parthen Rasithen. 

Parthen Rasithen is the story of two vastly different characters in love with the same man (Prashanth).  The Simran character is a feisty, fiery one, in sharp contrast to the timid Laila – Savitha dubbed for both of them!  When Simran realizes that her love is going to go unrequited, she goes about chalking out a devious plan and finally, reveals her cards at the most inopportune moment for Prashanth. 

The scene where she reveals her plan and her love for Prashanth is a memorable one.  Savitha’s voice is in lockstep with Simran’s terrific performance.  Simran’s character is not evil, just an obsessive one who has as much pain in her heart as steely determination.  This is revealed beautifully by both the actress and the voice behind screen.  Observe the way Simran places a stethoscope on her chest and says, “Shankar…Shankar…”  The shriek right afterwards where she barks, “Unaku puriyadhu…” is superbly delivered.  As the sequence progresses, the juxtaposition of pain and mad fury escalates.  Especially poignant is the way Simran grabs Prashanth’s shirt and says, “Naasama poga…una thedo thedu-nu theditaaLe…”  Savitha’s voice cracks just a little to reveal the pain but the clear enunciation and the changes in tone are beautifully done. 

Equally effective is the scene where Simran taunts Laila.  By now the Simran character has switched the gears of obsession and desperation up many notches.  And she decides to threaten Laila with dire consequences.  This is a rather scary sequence where she orders Lawrence to disrobe Laila.  Simran is in dazzling form in this scene; so is Savitha.  There are several standout lines written by Saran, none more powerful than, “Ena mela paakare…Krishna Paramaathma vandhu pudava kudupaar na…”  Also, the manner in which Savitha delivers the, “Unai pudavaiyil paarka aasai” line reveals the full magnitude of Simran’s scorn. (It was a line uttered by Prashanth earlier.)  The way Simran pinches Laila’s cheek while uttering the line is a non-violent but an intense moment nevertheless.  This is another instance of the acting on screen and the acting behind the mic being in perfect sync.  That Savitha dubbed for Laila too and the voice sounds vastly different from the voice for Simran speaks volumes (pun intended!) of her talent.

That sync between the voice artiste and the actor is achieved only when there is complete dedication on both fronts.  There have been many instances where an actress’ lip sync goes awry and it is left to the voice artiste to repair the damage done on screen! (Check out pretty much any of Shriya’s movies for a demonstration!)  But as Baradwaj Rangan mentioned in his recent interview with Simran, the latter has been one that takes great pains to ensure that the lip sync, or lack thereof, never serves as a distraction.  When the actress inhabits the character she is playing with the kind of conviction that Simran does, I am sure that it is a pleasure for the dubbing artiste to complement the efforts with their voice.  I was equally chuffed that Simran graciously acknowledged the contribution of voice artistes like Savitha and Deepa Venkat.  To me, Parthen Rasithen and Savitha’s voice work will be a crown jewel for both Savitha and Simran.  In short, Parthen Rasithen… Kaetten Rasithen!