Twenty/20 Hindsight: Reflections Beyond Cricket

What a wonderful spectacle has the Indian Premier League (IPL) been this year!  More than half the games have been completed.  Yet, it is nigh impossible to predict the eventual winner.  Young cricketers have dazzled on the big stage without seemingly projecting any of the nerves that are associated with high-stakes contests.  There have been a few predictable victories.  But there have been several surprises, some pleasant (depending on your allegiance) and others not so.  But beyond the actual cricket, beyond the frenetic pace of the games, there were several vignettes and snapshots that made me pause, to reflect. 

An image that will remain with me for a long time is Rahul Dravid on a wheelchair, showing up for Rajasthan Royals as the coach.  One could, of course, make a case for not romanticizing these kinds of instances where one may be unnecessarily pushing themselves, when rest maybe better for their body.  But knowing Dravid, he would have weighed his options and listened to medical counsel before deciding that his presence, despite his injury, would not aggravate his pain.  A coach pushing himself to go that extra mile to mentor a young team, is a leadership lesson unto itself.  With Dravid, this reputation was not built overnight.  We have watched him for nearly 30 years now.  Unfussy expression of fierce commitment has been his hallmark for three decades now.  Long after his playing days, the veteran continues to be an inspiration.

Another veteran Krish Srikkanth demonstrated something which is increasingly rare these days: the willingness to apologize with sincerity.  In a Q&A session, in order to express his disagreement with another analyst’s (Prasanna aka Pdogg) reading of the game, he essentially pulled rank and dismissed the latter’s opinion.  But in a subsequent episode of the show, he apologized sincerely for saying what he did in the heat of the moment.  Unequivocally.  No qualifiers.  No excuses.  Just a plain, simple and honest apology.  As an ardent admirer of Srikkanth, I found it heartwarming to witness his disarmingly candid approach as a critic.

Candid criticism, of course, has been flowing as freely as water through a dam with defective floodgates, in the case of the Chennai Super Kings (CSK).  One is being wise after the event, when discussing the auction strategy and team selections.  But beyond the raw emotion displayed by disappointed fans, it is equally important to be in tune with changing times, adapt to newer styles and pick horses for courses.  There was a time when India was not playing the kind of unfettered T20 cricket that others were playing with great success.  Results were dismal.  Rohit Sharma took it upon himself to walk the talk, playing the kind of aggressive cricket that injected a fresh shot of adrenaline into the batting.  CSK needs that kind of metamorphosis with a leader who is willing to risk his talent, go for broke and enabling a pivot in terms of the team’s strategy.  We see in the professional setting how an inspirational leader, especially one who walks the talk with sincerity and authenticity, can truly lift a team's spirits when the chips are down.  They can do that by not only setting the vision or a strategic shift but by demonstrating the implementation of that in their own actions.  Their actions inspire multifold when compared to mere words.  

CSK needs to look no further than Mumbai Indians, led by the enterprising Hardik Pandya.  The team was in the doldrums a few weeks ago.  But they have played a fearless brand of cricket, with their bowling spearheads Jasprit Bumrah and Trent Boult complementing the scintillating batting efforts.  When I follow their games, I do not see them doing anything crazy.  They have not shaken up their team composition significantly.  They are just sticking to the basics unwaveringly.  Their stars aligning and shining brightly are not accidental.  But a result of excelling at the fundamentals, which may seem like basic textbook knowledge but is just not executed as often as it should be.

Speaking of textbooks, a school kid has just scored the second fastest ever century in the IPL at an age where books, Bournvita and bonding with friends over street cricket form the trifecta of every cricket-crazy kid’s existence in India! (The last two certainly did for this writer.)  Vaibhav Suryavanshi is at an age (14) where he can barely shut his eyes off the glare of the spotlight that has been shining on him ever since he made his debut. 

A lot has been written over the years about the perils and pitfalls of overnight stardom.  What I think is just as important is providing kids like Suryavanshi a conducive environment to flourish.  In the workplace, we speak of psychological safety.  How it is just as important as physical safety.  It is true across fields of work, study and sport.  In order for one to thrive, one has to feel the confidence that someone has his or her back.  That they have the space to find and show up with their authentic self.  For kids at an impressionable age or for professionals, especially in the early to middle stages of their career, it is so crucial to make them feel like they belong.  That their voice matters.  That they have the environment that will celebrate their successes and will lend a shoulder when they fail. (Suryavanshi just scored a zero yesterday.  That’s okay, kid.  You will learn from this zero more than you did from your century.) Just as important as lessons that are taught are those lessons that are gained from lived-in experience.  And for one to learn those experiential lessons, it behooves the ones around them to give them the platform to learn.  After all, a learning platform is the foundation for excellence at the big stage.

As we enter the final few weeks of this exciting tournament, there may be more surprises in store for us.  There may be lessons too.  For the cricketers and for us.  We just need to take a few minutes for them to sink in.  Life sometimes happens at the kind of breakneck speed as a Suryavanshi century.  But we owe it to ourselves to press the pause button, to reflect, to rejoice and to remind ourselves to see the bigger picture, regardless of the size of our TV screen!  After all, even a fast-paced T-20 game allows the teams an opportunity for a 2:30-minute Ceat Tyres strategic timeout!

The Gods Are Happy: A review of Ashwath Marimuthu’s “Dragon”

Years ago, I had the opportunity to interview writer-director Visu.  During our conversation, I asked him how he felt about the inclusion of Manorama’s character in “Samsaram adhu Minsaram” (1986).  The character was not part of his original script.  It was owing to producer AVM Saravanan’s recommendation that Visu included her character for comic relief. (That she made it unforgettable was a testament to both the writer and the actress.) Referring to the goddesses of wealth (Lakshmi) and learning (Saraswati), Visu said in trademark fashion, “Saraswati veLeela pogatha varaikkum Lakshmi ulla vandhaa thappu illa.”  It was a memorable analogy, one that I think of whenever I watch a film that has commercial appeal, yet is tastefully written and delicately crafted.  Case in point - Ashwath Marimuthu’s “Dragon.”

This is the story of D Raghavan (a convincing Pradeep Ranganathan) aka Dragon, a youngster who decides to transform from a studious, responsible school student into a wild college goer after being spurned by a classmate.  He is suspended from college by his principal (Mysskin) after he pushes the envelope a little beyond acceptable limits.  He also experiences a heartbreak, after his girlfriend Keerthi (Anupama Parameshwaran) breaks up with him.  Burdened by this and his 48 uncleared papers, he decides to take the easy way out by indulging in forgery as a means to a well-paying job.  Pelf follows.  So does a marriage proposal with the daughter of a rich industrialist.  Whether his past and conscience catch up with him is the rest of the film.

Ashwath Marimuthu is a gifted writer who not only writes marvelous standalone scenes.  But also excels at creating parallel narrative arcs that all have neat, and at times, unexpected, closure.  One of the best subplots is that of Keerthi and Dragon.  (Spoilers ahead) In a powerful scene at a restaurant, Keerthi stands up to him while providing valid reasons for breaking up with him.  He abuses and drives her away.  When they meet years later, Keerthi feels a pang of guilt for how Dragon’s life has panned out.  Even here, Dragon does not treat her with the dignity she deserves.  But in a beautifully written moment outside the exam hall, he says something that I have rarely seen Tamil movie heroes do.  He apologizes with utmost sincerity.  And adds, “I didn’t deserve you.”  That line and the spontaneous hug brings about a closure to their story in the most satisfying manner.  Anupama turns in a lovely performance in this scene.  The shock on her face looks absolutely real. So is her satisfied smile as he walks away.  

The other element of Ashwath’s writing is his ability to seamlessly weave thoughtfulness into the dialogue without making it sound pretentious.  Take for instance the delightful scene featuring Dragon and his protege Vetri aka Kutty Dragon! (Harshath Khan aces his part!)  At the end of a well-executed stunt sequence, there is a hilarious line uttered by Harshath.  The moment Dragon starts to dish out advice, he dubs him a “boomer.”  Acknowledging the tag, the lines uttered in response by Pradeep drip with common sense and depth.

The film goes into top gear in the climactic portions, with some of the twists unfolding in an unexpected yet believable manner.  Here too, the writing is exquisite and psychologically acute. (Spoilers ahead) That Dragon would want to check on a student who has attempted suicide is very believable.  Because as a student that has failed multiple exams and who sees himself as a bit of a mentor to younger students, he would have been in equal parts anxious and eager to help.  And what he does after he learns the truth, makes the character shine brightly.  Traditional notions of success and failure are turned on their head in the most perceptive manner. (The cameo at the end is the kind of audience-pleasing element that doesn’t take away anything from the integrity of the writing.)

The casting of “Dragon” is pitch perfect.  Mysskin, KS Ravikumar, Gautam Menon and Mariam George are all perfectly cast.  The standout for me was Mysskin.  Essaying the role of the principal with utmost dignity, he infuses a welcome casualness into his lines.  Little touches like the “I missed you, man” that he says to Pradeep, add gloss to his characterization and performance.  He is the one that propels the plot starting with the memorable pre-intermission sequence.  And he rises to the challenge in superb fashion.  

In this day and age of memes and trolls for anything that remotely resembles earnestness and sincerity, it is difficult to make a truly responsible film.  But Ashwath has demonstrated with “Dragon” that it is possible to make a thoughtful film without losing a wee bit of the entertainment quotient.  In essence, the director of “Oh My KadavuLe” has ensured, much like a certain veteran did back in 1986, that both Saraswathi and Lakshmi have blessed him and his film!

***

The film is streaming on Netflix: https://www.netflix.com/in/title/81762715

Official poster downloaded from Wikipedia

Some chapters are incompl…

It was supposed to be a routine Sunday morning.  I was in my maternal grandparents’ house.  It was a two-story house, with my grandpa’s office room at the far end of the upper floor.  I woke up a little earlier than usual for a Sunday.  The 8^th grade final exams were round the corner.  I was especially keen on doing well in Math, a subject that I loved, but a subject in which my recent test score didn’t exactly reflect love.  Or even infatuation, for that matter!  But the reason why I woke up early was not that test score.  India was playing a one-off Test match in New Zealand.  India was in the process of bundling out New Zealand for a paltry 187. (No, I did not have to check the score on Cricinfo.)  And I was following the game with intense, unwavering focus befitting a student.  Student of the game, I mean.  Only to be disturbed (!) by my parents, who said to me that we had to leave for our apartment. 

I grudgingly turned off the TV.  And I walked downstairs.  I took my backpack, put on my slippers, bade my goodbye to my grandma and got into the car.  As my father was about to drive away, I said, “Wait, I need to say, ‘bye’ to Thatha.”  And I ran upstairs all the way to his office room, hugged him and said, “Poitu varen, Thatha.” (“I’ll leave, grandpa.”)  Mind you, this was not a routine for me and him.  I have no idea why I did what I did.  But little did I know that that was the last time that I would see him alive.  He died in a freak accident later that morning. 

As people who know me personally (or even through my writing) know, I have never really made peace with that loss.  It was the first time in my life (and unfortunately not the last) that I had to deal with a loss for which I was scarcely prepared.  But that hug has always meant something to me.  As much as it was a chapter in the book of my life that had a shorter than desired length, the last sentence of that chapter was not incomplete. 

I recently revisited portions of the beloved Julia Roberts film, “My best friend’s wedding.”  In the film there is a lovely little line uttered by Dermot Mulroney that goes, “If you love someone, you say it, you say it right then, out loud.”  He adds, “Otherwise, the moment just...passes you by.”  Of course, in the context of the film, it is about romantic love.  But if we think deeper, it applies to all forms of love and affection.  Sometimes, we look back at people who are no more.  Or not part of our lives anymore.  And we bemoan the things that we wish we had told them.  Be it expressing affection, gratitude or repentance.  Sometimes, we obtain closure, even if delayed.  Otherwise, through circumstance or quirk of fate, we do not.  Especially in the case of the latter, it is more difficult to make peace.

After my grandma suffered a heart attack in India in 2013, I made it a point to call her every day (mostly) until she passed away in 2018.  Because I had this feeling that I might not have her around much longer.  Sometimes my Aunt would pick up the phone.  And I would say to her, “Shoba, I have almost reached work.  Please give the phone to Thathama.  I don’t want to miss talking to her today.”  What I didn’t realize was that my Aunt was going to pass on before my grandma did, in 2016, aged 49.  

After my Aunt passed away, I tried to consciously avoid the regret of not talking to her more.  Simply because I had no idea that she was going to leave us prematurely.  I just took comfort from the fact that in the last years of her life, I was uniformly nice to her unlike in my younger days when I used to argue, fight or occasionally be insensitive.  As I grew older, I understood the depths and purity of her character better.  And I would spend quality time with her whenever I visited India.  After her passing on, I do things in her memory such as donating blood around the time of her death anniversary. (She died of hematologic complications.)  With this way of thinking, I am essentially being kind to myself whenever I reflect on her.  After all, fate sometimes forces us to discover, on our own, the avenues where coping mechanisms reside.

Of course, I would be remiss to not acknowledge the power of action and how it can be a lot more powerful, meaningful and enduring when compared to words.  It is not always about expressing something in words.  Thoughtful actions and gestures can make a lasting impact on someone’s life.  It is just that we must make every day count when we have the power and the ability to do so. 

I love Paulo Coelho’s line that when we want something badly, the “universe conspires” to make it happen.  It’s just that the universe doesn’t always bring about neat and tidy ways to close out certain narrative arcs in the story of our life when we want it.  Sometimes it does.  At other times, we must place the faith in the power of goodness.  And bide our time, with a pinch of acceptance and dollops of patience.  When we do that, we give ourselves a chance to experience peace without expecting that it will be handed over to us on a platter.  But really, we want to ensure that in our book of life, there are no dangling ellipses…and that we can have chapters that are, in their own way, complete.

Life-Work Balance

One company’s co-founder waxes eloquent about working 70 hours a week.  Another company’s chairman insists that employees work 90 hours a week.  Social media has been flooded with memes ever since these proclamations came about – the Amul “Labour & Toil” one took the bread…err…cake!  What would we, as a society do, if not for humor!  Be that as it may, completely ignoring these statements is perilous.  Because not only are these statements the tip of the iceberg and a symptom of a larger problem.  But also, these lines could have an insidious effect on work culture that may extend beyond the companies that these so-called leaders helm.  And what could end up as the biggest casualty is that beautiful but often elusive notion of life-work balance. (Why does everyone have to call it work-life balance!)

Image courtesy of Financial Express

Over time, especially with the omnipresence of social media, an unfortunate development is that people that are scarcely qualified to make statements on a particular topic get the platform to do so.  Anyone with a smartphone assumes the role of a movie critic.  One does not seem to need a medical degree to make a health-related recommendation.  Similarly, C-suite executives feel entitled to speak about antiquated work practices while seemingly ignoring the concept of productivity and the ill effects of continual stress on one’s health.  What we hear are the voices of those who have the self-granted license to get away with irresponsible statements.  It is because these executives are in positions of great power.  They know fully well that despite all the backlash, the searing opinion pieces and the hilarious memes, that they can continue to wield the power to make statements and even foster unhealthy work practices. 

I have seen some argue that these executives got to where they got to by dint of hard work and long hours.  Full credit to them, yes.  But not everyone might have the capacity, desire, willingness or the means to get to the upper echelons of management.  More importantly, the folks that defend these statements fail to realize that the leaders did not achieve what they did in a vacuum.  Just like the ones who join a corporation owe the company a focused, enduring demonstration of their abilities and a healthy attitude, those at the top owe to their employees a physically and psychologically safe environment.  When we hear numbers like 70 and 90 hours, it is clear that that safety is not their utmost concern.  Not by a long shot. 

Am I suggesting that one must not go the extra mile at work?  And inflexibly stick to a strictly 40 hours a week routine?  No, not at all.  There are times when one would have the zest and passion to go above and beyond.  There are times when there will be a time-sensitive need to work a little harder and, yes, longer than normal. (Seeing the previous line, I realize that I should have italicized, “normal!”)  There are times when an employee might not really have a ready alternative to a tough environment, due to reasons ranging from financial to societal pressures.  But working long hours without sufficient rest or proper sleep will, for the most part, catch up with us and manifest themselves in myriad ways.  In the form of strained relationships, declining physical or mental health, burnout and so on. Social science research shows that the pernicious effects of continual stress are significantly higher than the stress caused by one-off life events (such as the loss of a job, death of a loved one, etc.) Sure, there may be exceptions.  But I do firmly believe that nothing immoderate is sustainable. 

On a related note, I must point out that there is an important distinction that we must make between hectic and tedious.  During times of high pressure and tough deadlines, it is imperative that employees feel an intrinsic motivation to work hard.  They must feel like they belong.  That their work matters.  And that they as a person- inclusive of their physical and mental health- matter.  I have witnessed some superb leadership of critical path projects wherein leaders and team members rallied around one another, under high pressure but without having that pressure transform into stress.  So, I know that it is indeed possible to at least create a sub-culture within a large organization where one's health is not a casualty during times of intense work pressures.

Commitment to our work is important, no doubt.  It is what keeps the lights on and puts food on the table at home.  But commitment to the ones for whom we are an integral part of their support system is even more important.  Additionally, we also have a commitment to people whom we consider as our support system.  Because the ones that are shouldering our burdens, concerns, worries and pressures, in turn, need and deserve the bare minimum assurance that we are doing things in service of our own physical and mental health.  Alas, these commitments are all intertwined, rarely mutually exclusive.  One needs to put in genuine effort to ensure that the scales don’t tilt heavily in any one direction for a lengthy period of time.  It may not always be easy.  But one cannot afford to stop trying.

Taking the Write Decisions

Actress Urvashi, during a recent roundtable hosted by film critic Baradwaj Rangan, mentioned something that is unusual for actors.  Usually, we hear actors talk about their co-stars or their directors.  It is much rarer for an actress to talk about an important but underrecognized part of a film's creative team – the writer.  Many old-timers bemoan the lack of dedicated story and dialogue writers in the present-day scenario.  Urvashi mentioned Visu as her favorite writer.  There are two other writers who are unfortunately not with us anymore.  But whose pen combined with Urvashi’s panache to result in some truly memorable films.  They are Crazy Mohan and N Prasanna Kumar.

In all likelihood, you have heard of the former but not the latter.  Crazy Mohan, the genius comedy writer, worked with Urvashi on three films – Michael Madana Kamarajan (MMKR), MagaLir Mattum and Panchathanthiram.  While her part in the last film was a minor one, the first two are widely regarded as comic classics.  Urvashi was in sublime form in those two films.  

As a lot of writers and directors like to say, “comedy is serious business.”  We tend to take comedy creators and actors for granted.  But a lot of effort goes into making the jokes work.  For instance, the “Naeka?  Noaka?  Naekum noakuma?” scene in MMKR would have fallen flat, if not for the perfect timing of the two actors.  Mohan, the master of puns, came up with one of the cutest puns on the word, "cook."  The way Urvashi bashfully says, “Graamam-um cooka? NeengaLum cook-u” (not to mention Kamal’s innocent laughter!) brought to life Mohan’s impishness.  In a TV interview, Kamal and Mohan mentioned rehearsing ahead of the shooting to make the best use of the location, its props (like the bureau) and to get the timing of the jokes right.  All those efforts clearly showed on screen, for MMKR is one of the most beloved comedy classics of thamizh cinema.

MagaLir Mattum, of course, was the best of the Mohan-Urvashi combination films.  As the gullible and bumbling member of the trio (which included Revathi and Rohini), Urvashi walked away with the film.  The extended hospital sequence is one of the film’s highlights.  The whole scene rested on the idea that the three women thought that they had accidentally poisoned and killed the Nasser character!  Revathi stating “poison overdose” and Urvashi naively responding, “naan oru spoon than potten” is an example of a seemingly simple line finding an actor who knew exactly how to deliver it to make it magically spring from paper to screen. 

You may not have heard of writer Prasanna Kumar.  But you probably know every Vivekh joke in Lingusamy’s Run.  Well, Prasanna Kumar was the dialogue writer for Vivekh in many films like Run and Manadhai Thirudivittai.  He had worked in the 1980s as a dialogue writer for Robert-Rajasekar in acclaimed films such as Paalaivana Cholai.  Subsequently, he was the dialogue writer of all of director Keyaar’s films.  Urvashi turned in stupendous performances in two of Keyaar’s films, Vanaja Girija and Irattai Roja. (I am not a fan of her work in Maya Bazaar 1995.) 

Khushboo, ever the gracious co-star, worked with Urvashi in both these films.  She mentioned in an interview that Vanaja Girija where she and Mohini played the titular roles, completely faded into the background once Urvashi entered the picture as the servant maid.  As the boisterous raconteur who can tire the listener (but certainly not the moviegoer!) into submission with her monologues, Urvashi had a whale of a time in this film.  There is a hilarious scene where Urvashi thinks that she has a great story to tell but is chided by everyone in the house.  Watch her narrate the same anecdote multiple times but with just a bit of variation, depending on the listener.  She does it in a single shot, with no let up in momentum.  It is a little gem of a performance by an actor who knew the precise modulation to even make throwaway asides work. (I have also written a piece on her performance in Irattai Roja.)

Click on 'Play' to go directly to the aforementioned scene:

Thanks to a subset of our directors (especially in Malayalam cinema) knowing the true worth of gifted writers, actors like Urvashi who always knew the importance of writers, are getting a chance to shine in significant roles. (Her performance in Christo Tomy's Ullozhuku was deeply moving.) It is a testament to Urvashi’s talent as an actor that she has worked effectively with writers across generations, knowing exactly the note to strike for every character.  As much as a director shapes an actor’s performance, it is the writer that carefully constructs the ‘audio’ part of the audiovisual medium that is cinema.  And when actors join hands with writers, it is the best possible synergy that manifests itself on screen.  Robert de Niro once said, “The talent is in the choices.”  And in choosing to work thoughtfully with writers, the monstrously talented Urvashi has certainly made the write choices!

"Why me?"

There is a poignant sequence in a recently released film (“Meiyazhagan”) where a boy and his family abruptly leave their family home, owing to a crisis.  As they are about to leave their beloved home with all the packed belongings, they realize that they have not loaded the boy’s bicycle onto the truck.  The family decides to leave without it.  Subsequently, the cycle is given to a man, not necessarily out of generosity as much as practicality.  But the impact of the cycle on the man and his family is as unexpected as it is beautiful to hear and watch, much later in the film.  When I watched this film, I was reminded of the famous Steve Jobs quote, “You have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future.”  Our lives are full of surprises, be it in terms of people or circumstances or a mixture of both.  In the movies, one tends to appreciate screenwriting where an event that happens earlier is tied in a surprising yet elegant manner to something that happens much later.  Our lives might not always have the kind of neat connection, satisfying closure or a surprising payoff.  But the seeds of goodness do germinate in unexpected ways.  Let me share four such instances from my life where the way the dots connected made sense only in hindsight.  But they surely did. 

Until I was around 10 years old, I was barely interested in the sport of cricket.  I had a friend who studied in our school for a year before moving to Dubai.  He lived in a different locality.  Owing to a logistical issue, his family moved to a home which was just a couple of streets away from mine.  So, hanging out with him was that much easier.  That was in November of 1991, when the Australian summer season of cricket had just begun.  There was a World Series tourney, a Test match series and finally, of course, the 1992 World Cup.  My friend not only taught me the basics of cricket but also had a depth of knowledge of the game and its history that was scarcely believable for a 10-year old.  The infectious enthusiasm and passion rubbed off onto me.  My love affair with cricket began that year, only to have gotten stronger with time, despite not always having the facilities to follow the game actively (when I lived abroad).  My friend moved to Dubai in the August of 1992. (I sadly lost touch with him.)  I had other friends later who equally loved the game.  But if not for my buddy’s family moving closer to my place in November 1991, I may have never loved the sport like I do now.  

As a school student, nobody except me seemed to know that I was good at Math!  I actually had a very good understanding of Math and could grasp concepts much easier than I did with any other subject.  But my grades rarely, if ever, reflected my love for the subject.  From time to time, I would completely take my family (and my teacher!) by surprise by doing extremely well in an exam.  Later, when I moved to the US along with my family for my undergrad, I had enrolled in a Math class in my first semester.  I did not know that the same course had been taught in different sections by different professors.  As I was walking into the computer science building, sensing my tentativeness, a fellow student asked me, “Are you looking for the Engineering Math class?”  I replied in the affirmative.  He said, “Come with me, I am headed there.”  I sat in that class, which was taught by a person who not only rekindled and channeled my love for Math but also went onto become one of my life’s most significant mentors- Dr. Jim Jamison.  Oh, one little detail that I failed to mention - I was actually assigned to another section!

For the entire semester, I would receive (physical) mails in my home stating that I was not attending the class!  My parents and I thought that it was sent in error because I was doing quite well in Dr Jamison’s class!  After I received a third or fourth note, just out of curiosity, I went to the administration office to show them the letter.  The secretary thankfully saw the lighter side of things and joked, “You would have gotten an F if you hadn’t shown up today!”  She ‘transferred’ me to Dr. Jamison’s class three months after I had started attending his classes!  If not for my innocent mistake, I would have never met my mentor who taught me things far beyond calculus.

After I had worked as a software engineer for five years, I had decided to switch careers.  And in order to galvanize this move, I quit my job to do a full-time MBA.  While I was interested in marketing as a function, I was not really particular about the industry that I wanted to work in.  My summer internship after the first year of my MBA was in the logistics space.  During my second year, as I was looking for full-time jobs, I would sit in on corporate presentations on campus made by prospective employers.  A free meal or a snack was always an appealing factor!  But the most impactful presentation among all the ones that I attended was made by a person who had graduated from my alma mater and was working in the healthcare space.  Her talk on healthcare and all the ways, small or big, in which one could make a difference (in a commercial function, even without a background in science) truly inspired me.  I went to her talk looking to enjoy a zero-dollar meal.  What she gave me was priceless food for thought!  Upon finishing my MBA, I did join the company that she recruited for and worked there for 12 years.  If not for that talk, I wonder if I would have applied for the job with as much earnestness or prepared for my interviews with as much raw passion as I exhibited back then.

The total number of non-fiction books that I had read prior to 2010 was a grand zero.  I had never been an avid reader.  But when I happened upon a Time magazine piece on Dr Sheena Iyengar and her book, “The Art of Choosing,” I was intrigued enough by the core topic of the book - choices - that I decided to give it a try.  The book, which examined choices from multiple perspectives such as physiological, cultural and environmental, resonated with me deeply.  During a work trip to New York, I also had the pleasure of meeting her in person and thanking her for creating an indelible impact through the book.  She gave me a copy of the latest edition of the book, autographed with a note that read, “Be choosy about choosing and you will choose well.”  I went on to realize that reading non-fiction could truly open my mind to new ways of thinking and enable me to view the world from the vantage points of the authors.  Little did I know that a Time article on a book would lead to such an enduring and meaningful change in my life.

It is human tendency to ask, “Why me?” when something untoward threatens to sink our morale.  We rarely ask the same question in the context of the dots that connect in ways that buoy us up.  If we take a step back to look at the larger picture of our life, we realize that as much as serendipity and sequence of events play a role, the 'people' involved play a much bigger role.  My sitting in the wrong section would have meant nothing if not for a professor like Dr. Jamison.  My friend moving to my locality would not have mattered had not for his infectious enthusiasm and the willingness to share his knowledge.  My sitting in a presentation, tempted by a free meal, would have just ended in an afternoon nap, not a career-altering decision, if not for the presenter.  You see the pattern here.  It is tough to force us to lift ourselves up when the weight of our life's issues threatens to fell us.  But to occasionally reflect on the ways in which the dots connected in unexpectedly pleasant ways, might be a good way to lift ourselves up, even if temporarily.  And while we are it, we may also pay it forward by being that dot in someone else’s portrait of life.  If an abandoned bicycle can change a family’s fortunes, then we, as people, might at least try to do our bit by sowing a bit of goodness in other people's lives.

Meiyazhagan: A thing of true beauty

Disclaimer: the write-up does have spoilers. You may want to read it AFTER watching the film.

Walking out of C Prem Kumar’s “Meiyazhagan”, I thought of something that is quite obvious about characters in a film.  We really don’t know them at all before a film's projection begins.  Sure, we can always guess the genre and the flavor of a film by the first look, teaser, trailer and so on.  But every creator has the task of making us care - especially in a drama - about the characters early enough in a film to be invested in them for the duration of the movie.  Let’s first look into what Prem does in the opening sequence of the film.

The prelude of “Meiyazhagan” has to establish the core character of AruL (played masterfully by Arvind Swamy; more on him later).  And what the house and the city that he grew up in, meant to him.  As if to suggest an impending ‘death’ of sorts that AruL is about to experience, the film opens with the shot of a lamp being put out.  We realize that he and his family have lost possession of the house that was, and will always be, an integral part of his identity.  A few deeply poignant moments among the family members play out.  And as they are about to leave, we see a shot where the camera is inside the dark house.  As AruL shuts the door, we, the audience, are in darkness.  The scene does not cut away immediately.  We experience that darkness, that dread for just that one extra second.  Without quite realizing it, we have already felt the pain of a character whom we did not know up until a few moments ago.

In a cute homage to his debut film, the time gap between the events described above (which happen in 19…96!) and the ‘present’ is 22 years.  The scene is now set in 2018. (We even see a poster of "96" later.)  AruL is in Chennai, happily married to Hema (Devadarshini).  He is about to head back to Thanjavur to attend the wedding of his cousin, whom he is very fond of.  We realize that he has resisted the urge to revisit the place - more accurately, his past - all these years.  But he decides to return, nevertheless.  At the wedding, he sees a character (Karthi) who showers all of the world’s affection on him.  But there is a catch.  AruL cannot, for the life of him, remember who he is.  This conceit leads to several laugh-out-loud moments, yes.  More importantly, this leads to a marvelous payoff in the concluding moments of the film.  The rest of the film is about what AruL gets to learn about this character, but more importantly what he learns about himself in the process.

We saw in “96” what Prem was capable of in terms of shaping characters and extracting nuanced performances from the entire cast.  He has taken that trait to stratospheric heights in this film.  Not everyone outside Arvind Swamy and Karthi have a lot of screen time.  But not only are they cast perfectly but also given the chance to shine.  Prem lets each of the characters breathe.  Take the example of Jayaprakash, who plays AruL’s father.  There is a scene where he speaks to Raj Kiran on the phone.  During the course of the conversation, he mists up.  But after they hang up, one would expect the focus to shift back to the wedding hall where the key characters are present.  But Prem has too much delicacy of touch to miss capturing what Jayaprakash’s character would be experiencing.  So, we see an extended shot of him tearing up uncontrollably.  Not only is the actor marvelously expressive.  But we also feel the pain caused by the separation.  That mood is built up moment by beautiful moment, by the filmmaker and his supremely talented actors.

It is not just the heavier, emotional scenes where we see the stamp of a filmmaker that knows exactly the note of performance that he needs from his cast.  We also see it in quieter moments.  Like the moment where Devadarshini switches from the speaker phone to holding her phone to her ear because she can barely contain her excitement.  Or that lovely moment where Sri Divya’s face lights up at the realization that her husband is having a genuinely nice time. 

I have always felt that what separates a lazy director from a thoughtful one is what he does with the persona of an actor.  An actor's persona is just the foundation for the performance, not the performance.  What Prem does with his actors is exactly that.  Devadarshini has a sprightly side to her.  Sri Divya has a charming innocence about her.  Karunakaran has a deadpan hilarity about him.  Raichal Rabecca (who played the kind-hearted magistrate in “Kadaisi Vivasayi”) projects an innate kindness.  These are all on-screen personae which Prem exacts maximum mileage out of by giving the actors some wonderful lines and gorgeously quiet moments to work with.  

And finally, the two lead actors who carry the film - and the trust placed by Prem - on their broad shoulders.  The two actors turn in what are arguably the best performances of their respective careers.  At the start, Arvind Swamy comes across as a crusty, cynical character.  But the moment on stage where we hear his voice quiver, as he tenderly says, “Unaku thane da,” we immediately fall for the character.  Even in scenes where Karthi is doing more of the talking, his reaction shots are precise.  He is equally adept at the conversational moments, like the crucial phone call at the end of the film, as he is at the quieter moments.  Watch him gently embrace Devadarshini from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder.  It feels so perfect for what the character has gone through in the hours leading up to that.  And Karthi is a delight.  He plays a do-gooder with the right amount of charm and seriousness.  He delivers his searing monologues beautifully, with voice modulations that we have rarely seen in modern-day actors.  The monologue on people who lost their lives in a protest is a standout.  And he is the life of many a scene, be it singing Ilayaraja songs with gay abandon or engaging in earthy banter with the folks at the wedding hall. He is a livewire yes, but with a lot of heart.  

That Prem (who started his career as a cinematographer) has immense mastery over craft is evident throughout the film, as I had mentioned in regards to the opening sequence too.  But his writing in “Meiyazhagan” is deserving of as much approbation.  The humor is so organically woven into the scenes that it feels like we are laughing at the jokes cracked by people in daily conversations.  But one must not fail to notice some of the subtle elements written into the humor.  For instance, the presence of a snake in the house.  Firstly, it leads to an uproarious moment where Arvind Swamy suddenly switches from English to Thamizh in a moment of panic.  Later we see a shot of a snake by itself, seeming totally comfortable in the surroundings.  And finally, we see Karthi waving a fearless salute at the snake while continuing a conversation.  Through these humorous moments, we also get to realize how Karthi inhabits a world where he is integrated - in all ways - into nature and its beings, in their full glory.  

Some of the social commentary that we see in the second half too, don’t feel out of place, one because of the way they are part of a vibrant dialogue between the characters.  But also because, as Arvind Swamy tells his family at the end, the Karthi character embodies the true definition of love in every facet of life.  Be it his unconditional love for his fellow human beings or his affection towards animals, the latter leading seamlessly to the discussion on what the Jallikattu ban and protests truly meant to those who took care of the bulls.  His love for his city, his ancestors, his heritage, his society are all part of who he is as a person.  And that is precisely why when we hear Arvind Swamy state that he feels ‘small’ in comparison to the Karthi character, that the line truly resonates.  

The music by Govind Vasantha and the cinematography by Mahendran Jayaraju are in perfect sync with the director’s vision.  If “Yaaro ivan yaaro” rendered soulfully by Kamal Hassan is an ode to a life that AruL craves for, the background score also accentuates the impact of several scenes.  Even for the seemingly incidental moments, the score adds immeasurable impact.  Listen to the majestic nadhaswaram that plays when the elephant strides in the temple.  The cinematography not only brings to life the magnificence of Thanjavur (the director’s hometown) but also, in its own way, envelops us in the world inhabited by Karthi. The streets, houses, temples and monuments all develop a life of their own, thanks to the brilliant work of the DOP.  

Genuine love and affection are getting scarcer by the day in this world.  During these times, it is a pleasure to watch a supremely well-made, well-written and well-acted film like this.  It is a movie that re-infuses our faith in humanity and chips away ever so slightly at the cynicism that has seeped into us as a result of all the inequity and depravity that we witness in our society.  In essence, “Meiyazhagan” is a three-hour exhibition of rays of hope that C Prem Kumar and his team have projected onto the silver screen.