From Script to Screen: An interview with Rahul Ravindran

Since the day that I watched Rahul Ravindran’s masterful, “The Girlfriend” in the theatre, I knew that I wanted to meet its creator.  I knew that I had not only watched something truly special but also that it was a film that merited a deep dive, given the depth of emotion and density of detail.  Thanks to Subha Jayanagaraja ma’am, I was able to meet Rahul in person.  The meeting was an absolute pleasure for me.  Rahul had uploaded the script of the film a few days prior.  And I had had the opportunity to read the 100-page document just in time for the meeting.  As a result, we structured the conversation on the theme of, “From Script to Screen.”  The following is the edited version of the interview.  The unabridged version has been posted on Youtube and Spotify, thanks to the herculean efforts of my friend Pratip Vijayakumar.  And another friend of mine, Srinivasan Sankar helped me hugely in getting a transcript that I could work off to transcribe the interview in full here.

Without further ado, here is the conversation, which I have divided into sections, should you wish to skip ahead to specific parts of the interview:

The Process of Extracting Performances

Ram Murali: In the introduction scene of Bhooma (played by Rashmika Mandanna), you could see how earnest of a girl she is even before she opens her mouth. The way she looks at her classmate Rupa with an admiring look, it was very nice.  And there's this pause – she almost ‘swallows’ her words for a second- that she gives between saying, “I might not be good enough” and saying, “I want to let go of that fear.” How prescriptive are you with performances?  Because the script does not say there is a pause, right?

Rahul Ravindran: No, you start getting a feel of it as you're shooting certain things.  Some things if you notice in the script, I do mention, like my parentheticals are very specifically written. The parentheticals are the brackets just below the character's name before the dialogue starts.  So, they are sometimes very precisely written and sometimes obviously on the set, you get a certain feel for things.  Something like that, like I already told you my process, I kind of figure out my entire film in my head, sometimes in great detail, to the point that I know the expression of the artist, I know how they would say it.  And sometimes you don't even know which actor's going to play it.  Like when I was writing the first draft of “The Girlfriend”, I didn't know which actors were going to play it, except I think the two roles which I was pretty sure that this is who I'll want and I will be able to go get them were Rao Ramesh Sir and Rohini Ma'am.

When it came to Vikram or Bhooma, I didn't know at that point who was going to be playing these roles.  But it's weird, it's sort of like how you see faces in your dreams.  That's how I see them in my head, and I know that there's a certain expression that will come and I know that this is where the re-recording (RR) will kick in and what kind of a vague RR will kick in and things like that.  So that then helps me decide how much to communicate through dialogue and what is not needed to be communicated through dialogue.  When you're talking about that specific scene, when I'm seeing it in my head, like I told you, I wrote “The Girlfriend” in 12 days because I had all this figured out.  That scene, I know that whoever plays Bhooma tomorrow, that's how they're going to be saying it, because I'm seeing the character living and breathing in my head.

Some of it, like how Bhooma says it, is exactly how I had it in my head when I was writing it.  But there are certain things that an actor brings or that we figure out together, or I get an idea when we're discussing it on the set.  The gulping down is something Rashmika brought.  

I remember there were a couple of other key things that Rashmika brought to the table.  If you remember the scene where she tries to ask him for a break, she keeps scratching the skin around her fingernails.  That was something she suggested.  She came to me and said, "Hey, can I do this?" And she said, "This is something I do automatically..."  She showed me her index finger's skin around the nails and she said, "This is my natural response to anxiety and I end up doing this. So can I do this?" And that's how she interpreted it, and it was such a powerful image for me.  It conveyed what she was going through so powerfully.  I immediately changed my shot division.  I told my cinematographer, "You know what, I want a close-up for that," and I started building the rhythm of the music and the edit around this one act.

Similarly, something very powerful, we were supposed to shoot the scene where Durga comes in and puts Bhooma on the bed and she says, "Let me go get some water. Are you going to be okay, Bhoo?"  And what is in the script is that she turns around, she looks at the table, she looks at the phone and the father's photo, she gets up, she considers it and calls the father.  On the day of the shoot, Rashmika came to me and said, "Can you put a knife there?"  And I immediately knew why.  I said, "Wow, okay. Are you sure? I mean, that's going into a really dark space. I don't want to trigger people. I don't want it to be the wrong kind of trigger."  She said, "No, I know for a fact that every girl who's been humiliated, it's a thought that crosses your mind and sometimes it crosses your mind in a way where it feels very real.  I know many, many girls who've been through that thought and then they snap out of it.  Just put a knife there."

And it just felt very powerful, but at the same time, I was constantly arguing with myself if it's responsible. I didn't want it to be the wrong kind of trigger in a film.  But it just made sense what she said, and I put a knife there.  And then I said, "Okay, then you do one thing, let's keep it very subtle. Just get up, look at the knife, look at the phone, look at the knife, look at the phone, and then pick the phone."  That was again something she brought to the script.  So yeah, the gulping down at that exact moment is something she did and full credit to her for that. 

There are lots of skillsets that a director needs to have and I know that there are certain skill sets I have that I feel like I need to massively improve.  But I know that there is one skill set that I'm pretty good at - I know I am good at working with my actors.  And that comes from being able to understand someone.  Over time and with age, I'd like to think I've developed reasonable empathy and that empathy comes in very handy when I'm working with an actor.

Each actor that I work with, male or female, by lunch of day one with them, I'm usually good at figuring out what buttons to push with a certain actor and which ones not to push.  Some people respond to a certain kind of communication very well.  Some people respond to a slightly different kind of communication very well.  Like some actors like to be very, very meticulously directed to the last inch, like exactly told what they're going to do within a shot.  Some actors feel suffocated if they're directed that way.  Some actors, if you act something out and show it to them, without them realizing it, they start mimicking you exactly.  I don't want that to happen.  I don't want all actors, you know, sounding and talking and intonating like me.  Whereas some actors, sometimes when they get stuck in a certain place, they need it. They want their director to come and act it out and show it to them. You size up each actor, you understand how they work, and then you start adapting how you direct each one of them.

One of the reasons it was an absolute joy for me to work with Rashmika is that we had an extremely synchronous working relationship.  How I naturally like to direct an actor, which I keep changing with each actor, I didn't have to change with her because it is also how naturally she likes being directed by a director.  So, there was a perfect fit there.  She absorbs words, and how, especially adjectives, she takes them in like a sponge.  The most natural way in which I like directing an actor is just sitting them down, talking to them for about 15-20 minutes, and taking them through the mindset of the character they're playing through that scene, everything that's going on in the headspace of that character, without having to act it out.  And Rashmika loves that.  She loves being sat down and spoken to.  She loves someone who takes the effort of putting her in the exact mind space of that character and what they're going to go through in that scene.

With Rashmika, that is what it is. She and I, we sit down, and we take about 20-25 minutes before we start a scene, and we discuss in great detail.  Like I remember, much before we went to the set, one of the first things I told her when we started prepping for the character was, I said most people, if they're asked very simple questions like, "Hey, would you like to eat at this restaurant? Would you like to buy these clothes?  Or would you like to watch this film?" their first reaction is, "Would I like to do that? Would I not like to do that? Do I like it? Do I not like it? Do I want to? Do I not want to?”

I told her, “With Bhooma, because of the way you were raised from the age of five or six, you've been conditioned in a way where your thought process is such that even if you're asked a very simple question like that, your first thought isn't whether you like it or not, whether you want to do it or not. It's whether you will get into trouble with your dad if you do this. Will your dad like it if you do this?  Will you have to explain yourself to your father if you do this? And because you've grown up with this thought process for so long, you've conditioned yourself this way that you're not even in touch with your own feelings. And when you're not in touch with your own feelings, how do you express them? But you are intelligent enough and you have a high enough EQ that they're there. You're not so ignorant that you don't even feel them. You feel them, you don't know what to do with them, you don't know how to process them, you don't know how to unpack them because you've constantly lived a life ignoring them, and therefore you're not able to express them.”

Flee or Freeze: Choice and Consent

Ram: In the kiss scene, in the script, it says she places her hands around his shoulders.  She does not in the film.  When I was reading it, I was glad that she didn't do that in the film because she wouldn't have been that confident, right?  She seemed more hesitant, like she is receiving the kiss more than actively kissing.

Rahul: There were two things.  One, even the way she puts her hand around the shoulders, in my head it was still very hesitating.  It was like, "Should I push him away?" and she doesn't find the strength to do that, so she kind of freezes.  But initially, that entire scene was written in a very nuanced way.  It actually ends with him picking her up, taking her to the bed, and the camera moves out of the room.  That's how it was written in the first draft.

And then there were lots of discussions that happened which made me realize one thing.  In my head, the nuance was that here is this girl who's never had physical intimacy with a guy.  On one hand, she's not prepared for this, that's not why she came to this room, and she least suspected that things would escalate and get here where he's actually about to kiss her.  And she's frozen.  Some people flee when they're scared, some people freeze when they're scared, and she freezes.  And then he starts kissing her.  And for about 10 seconds, she's extremely uncomfortable and nervous. She didn't expect to be kissed.  She doesn't know what to do.  And about 10 seconds later, it was very nuanced in the sense that the rush, the blood rush of dealing with physical intimacy for the first time in her life, she kind of gives in.  She doesn't even know if she willingly gives in or not, but the sheer blood rush of a young girl experiencing physical intimacy for the first time, she gives in.

That is how it was initially written.  And then with each subsequent draft, and I was watching some of the films that were coming out and I was watching reactions to those films, and I realized that is a nuance that will be held against her to crucify her by one section of the audiences.  And I didn't want to give them that.  I said it's okay if I cut down all the nuance in the film, but what we're trying to convey through the story shouldn't get muddled.  Even without that nuance, there are some people still blaming the victim there.  She takes responsibility for the fact that she wasn't able to stop him. She takes responsibility for the fact that she wasn't able to stand up for herself and say, "No, I don't want to be in a relationship with you."  And she never once blames him for it.

Then we realized that nuance might be a little too much for a certain section of the audience and it will be used against Bhooma.  And that is why if you notice, the staging was changed on the set.  I think by then, before we went to the set, I had already kind of made up my mind, and Rashmika and I would have conversations and she had the same fears.  And I said, "Yeah, you know what? I've been thinking about it myself and I've kind of done away with that."

The Superb Staging of the "I Love You" Moment

Ram: In the "I love you" scene, was that a dolly zoom?

Rahul: It was.

Ram: On the one hand, you have the dolly zoom and on the other hand, you have the heart-pounding BGM.  When you stage a scene like that, what's the kind of conversation you have with your DOP?  Because it's an "I love you" where it's not as though she's exhilarated.

Rahul: Not at all.  Actually, she's uncomfortable and doesn't know what to do with that "I love you." And she never once in the film reciprocates that "I love you," if you notice.  The truth is that she never fell in love with him.  She, at one point, convinces herself that, "Okay, this is my reality now, he is my boyfriend now, and I'm going to be a good girlfriend to him."  That's her extent of making peace with it.

The dolly zoom basically is a recurring theme in the film.  It's every time she's getting gaslit or every time she's put in a situation where she doesn't have a say in it, and she's being forced to do something that she's not interested in doing.  If you notice, I use the dolly zoom when she says "I'm sorry" to the father and goes and drinks that glass of water.  There's a dolly zoom there.  The dolly zoom happens here as well.  And the dolly zoom happens in the scene where she says she wants a break and Vikram simply pinches her cheek and says, "I know what you need. You need some Vik-love right now."  There's a dolly zoom there as well.

It was like a recurring theme in the film.  And yet, I didn't want people to go, "Oh, the director has put a dolly zoom shot there."  I wanted it to be a dolly zoom, but I didn't want it to be so pronounced and disorienting that the director or the cinematographer pops in the middle of the storytelling and yanks someone out.  I didn't want it to be so disorienting, and yet very subtly underline her disorientation.  And yeah, the fact that I would have heartbeat BGM there was almost always there in my head even when I wrote the first draft.  I knew this would be the kind of score playing there.

Prison Bars, Dhupattas and Constricting Walls: The place of symbolism

Ram: There are different types of symbolism in the film.  One is the obvious dupatta.  Then there's the walls closing in on her kind of imagery.  Then there are these more invisible kind of moments like the dolly zoom where it's barely noticeable.  How do you decide what kind of symbolism is needed and how much of it is enough?

Rahul: I am somebody who shudders at the thought of using symbolism.  Again, for the same reason. Like, for example, when I was making my first film, I remember there were discussions on, "Hey, since they're going to be wearing the same set of clothes throughout the film, should we go for a color that signifies her mindset and his mindset?"  And I was like, "No, don't do it. It's meant to be life, and in life we don't decide... you're not thematically coordinated, are you?"  I'm the kind of guy who usually avoids things like that.  But when it came to this film, I did make a few choices where I was stepping out of my comfort zone.

There is a certain kind of storytelling where I'm comfortable doing it because I know nobody will pick it up.  Like if you, once they get into a relationship, if you notice almost every scene where Bhooma and Vikram are in the scene, Vikram's almost always never in the scene to begin with and he walks into the scene with utter disregard for what mood she's in or what conversation she's in the middle of and he hijacks it.  And it's almost always a disturbance.  Now I know this is something nobody's going to pick up on, but it creates a certain response in you... it's always you're in the middle of something along with Bhooma through her perspective and he comes and disturbs it and that adds to your perception of how Bhooma and what is happening in her life is constantly getting undercut by... sort of rammed by a train.  So those are things I don't mind.

Certain things like obvious symbolisms, I'm very worried about.  Like for example, every time Vikram enters, if you go back, you'll see there is some red fabric in the background somewhere, signifying a red flag.  There is a red flag moment.  Now, that is something I was really arguing with myself over.  I was like, "No, the nature of the film that it is, it lends itself to that."  That somebody on second viewing and somebody on third viewing picks these things up and they realize, "Oh, he's been telling me from the beginning."  Because the structure of the screenplay was such that the first half an hour, if you notice, was written in a way where almost every scene is an extremely cliched scene that you've seen in 1,500 films before.  Be it him stepping in to protect the girl and bashing up that cop, or be it him being “cutesy” about it and walking into her room and she's not there, which is actually creepy.  When he enters the room, you'll see a red cloth in the background.  I'm subverting it, and I didn't want that subversion to be obvious till about the 40th minute for a certain section of the audiences.

One of the most common responses I got for the film is so many women in different words conveying the same thing that, "Thank you for making this film. You gave our silences words."  And which is why it was healing.  It is such a common response to the film that I used to keep getting. And that's something I knew that when you're gaslit, when the whole world thinks he's a great guy and you are convincing yourself that no, maybe you're being unnecessarily complicated, maybe you're overthinking, maybe you're being neurotic, and you start learning to silence yourself.  That silence is the greatest burden they carry.

When it comes to those specific things that you asked me about, most of it came from necessity. Like, for example, the scene between the mother and Bhooma, if you read the screenplay, I always knew in my head I was going to stage it where it was going to be one shot where I'm just shifting focus and she's going to be sitting in front of a mirror and she sees herself in the mirror.  What I didn't have initially was the change of the sari.  In the interval block, in one very disoriented image, she's walking towards that grilled gate in Vikram's house and she sees the mother turned away from her wearing a sari, and she taps on her shoulder gently and the mother turns and she realizes it's her, it's not the mother.  That's how the interval block was supposed to play out.  But one, it felt repetitive.  I felt like let me close that loop with the mother then and there.

So now suddenly, the sari thing in the interval, which was supposed to be the main symbolism in the interval block, was gone because I decided I was going to do it in the scene itself.  When it was gone, I was like, "But I need to do something else there."  When we were shooting the hostel sequences, just outside that hostel block, there was this fascinating tree which, either because of erosion of the soil there or because they built pavements around it, the roots were exposed.  The roots were all out on the ground rather than under.  And one day, I was just walking into the hostel for a scene we were supposed to shoot inside, and I saw that, and something just clicked.  And I said, "Hey, hang on a second.  What if I put Bhooma there and we have a Jimmy shot of, you know, an aerial shot going into her and then coming out from her?"  I felt like that would be great for the interval block.

Now, coming back to the walls closing in.  The one thing about women or men who are victims of a toxic relationship where they're constantly getting gaslit is that they suffer it in silence.  Now, a girl who's isolated, for her to suddenly go talk to someone and verbalize this felt like such a let-down.  I wanted to retain that.  I said, "Okay, how do I convey to the audience what she's going through and how it's suffocating her without this girl verbalizing it to anybody else?"  The only piece of privacy she will have will be in that girls' toilet, in the shower cubicle.  Once she was there, it came from necessity again, that how do I show the inner turmoil?  I said, "I'm going to make the walls close in." The symbolism came from necessity, not from, "Hey, let me do something cool."

Ram: What about the door of the Mom's house? It looks like a prison bar.

Rahul: Again, that house that we shot in, it didn't actually have that grill door.  I asked for it.  The first thing I asked them was, "I need a grill door there," because I had this imagery in my head that the last time we see Vikram's mother is behind those bars and Rashmika leaves.  She chooses to escape that prison; the mother's stuck there.  For me, it was always a very powerful image.  But I remember on the day we were shooting, I'm like, "But is it too obvious?"  But I was like, "but it just makes sense."

Durga, the perfect ally

Ram: You mentioned Durga a couple of times.  She is a fascinating character.  And you also do the subversion there too.  First 30 minutes, the audience is made to feel a certain way about her.  And then in the scene where she says, "Oh my God, you're so sweet," and then in the way she holds her hand, it was a pleasant surprise.  Anu Emmanuel was fantastic in that role.  The character of Durga is not there for the majority of the second half except the climax.  Help me understand your choice there.

Rahul: Well, the reason she's absent in the film for the longest time is quite simply that the biggest irony, like I told you, is that Vikram cuts everybody else out of her life.  But ironically, the one person who Bhooma herself cuts out of her life is Durga.  I wanted to keep that going, so the isolation deepens, and it deepens to the point that she's got this large, looming shadow in her life, and that's the only presence in her life.  That isolation is very important.

From Durga's point of view, she has too much self-respect to force herself into someone else's life when that person has actively chosen to cut them out.  It comes not from a place of ego, but from a place of empathy, because Durga knows she's not ready to trust her over Vikram yet.  She knows that there is nothing she can tell her now.  She's probably been keeping a watchful eye from a distance, and the day she realizes someone's come and told her this has happened... even there, if you notice, she doesn't knock on the door and go talk to Bhooma.  All she wants to do is clean that door.  And if Bhooma hadn't come and opened the door, she would have probably finished cleaning the door and walked away.  The most beautiful thing about friends like that is that they know when to give you space.  And they know that when you've made a choice, "I will respect it and I'll give you space, but that's not going to change my feelings for you."  Those are the best kind of friends. That's the kind of friend Durga is.

For the longest time in South Indian cinema, the minute it's a “college babe”, it's always a very fair skinned North Indian looking girl.  And I said I want to break that stereotype.  I want to cast an actual South Indian girl who's dusky and yet convince you so thoroughly that she's the college babe that you don't even think that I've broken a stereotype there.  

A ‘heavy’ foam pit and the auditorium: The choice of locations

Ram: I want to ask you about two location choices.  One is the foam pit, which is the place where Durga makes an important confession.  And the other is the choice of the auditorium, which is not the location in your script - it is her room - for the breakup scene.

Rahul: The auditorium came from the simple fact that by then, I knew how much time we had spent in Bhooma's room.  And I felt like there's been too many scenes in Bhooma's room.  It is, as it is, a very limited locations film, and I'm simply adding to that by now shooting another very lengthy scene in again in that same location.  I felt like there's a certain visual monotony that will kick in.

The next question became, where then do I shoot it?  During the recce, I suddenly remember that someone had showed me the seminar hall.  And suddenly, it just made sense to me that this vast, vast space and yet there's solitude there.  I felt like these two being alone in a bigger room just felt right.  Just instinctively.  I can't even explain why.

Ram: In that scene, your direction of the actors was fantastic.

Rahul: See, the one thing with Rashmika, the two differences in the processes of Deekshith's process and Rashmika's process is that Deekshith's a method actor.  Rashmika works best without a method.  I figured this very early with her.  By day two, I realized that she's going to give you 50 great takes, no doubt about it, everything's going to be in place.  But there is some magic that comes from the spontaneity of the first two, three takes. Then I started telling my DOP, whatever the scene, no matter how inconvenient it is, we shoot her angle first.

Because with Deekshith, he has a method.  With him, it might take him sometimes one take, sometimes three, four takes, sometimes five takes to get to what we want, what he wants to bring and what I want him to bring to the scene.  Once he's nailed it, once he knows he's got it, he will give you 55 takes that are exactly the same, that are just as powerful and just as effective because he has a method.  For him, it's about finding that right take.  Once he's found it, he will give you that as many times as you need.  With Rashmika, she's going to give it to you, but her method is her spontaneity.  

I would never give her instructions like, "In that line, I want your voice to break."  Because I knew if I give her an instruction like that, then I am occupying 5% of her mind for Rashmika's thoughts, that as Bhooma she needs to deliver this in that line.  I realized it's counterproductive with her, that there is a certain magic that when you got her mind 100% occupied only with Bhooma's thoughts just before I would call action, there was instinctively there were so many things she was doing right.  

Ram: I liked another writing choice in that scene, that there was an economy of words there.

Rahul: There was a little more written.  Some of it was actually shot also, and I took it out.  I took it out in the edit because I felt even this is too much.  This is a girl finally expressing herself, she's not going to be able to express herself with so much lucidity.  It was like point A to point B to point C, and she wants to make a point because you could sense that she wanted to get out of it in as reasonably quick a time as possible, and yet land that blow as softly as possible.

And the foam pit sequence.  It was written as a coffee shop on paper, and we had started doing location recce for where we would shoot the montage leading up to that conversation.  I wanted a few other activities that they were doing, a few things that were a little more physical and also just visually interesting, which is the trampoline place.  We'd gone to do the location recce of the trampoline place.  When we went and did that location recce, then I saw that foam pit.  And suddenly, like, "Hey, hang on a second.  You know what?  I don't want to do this in the coffee shop anymore.  I like this place so much better."

Suddenly I saw that place and I was like, imagine her walking away from here, it would be so much more dramatic without unnecessary drama.  And it underlined the irony even more, where she's putting in so much effort to walk away from the one girl who could have saved her sooner.  It just felt so much more dramatic. 

A happy accident: The Intercut Sequence

Ram: Your (as Professor Sudheer) walk to the hostel with Bhooma is intercut with the scene where Vikram is arguing with that friend of his that tries to support Bhooma.  It's not done that way in the script.  It wasn't an intercut in the script. What made you do it that way?

Rahul: It came out of necessity.  The scene where he pours that boiling hot Maggi on his friend's face... one day before that shoot day, we were supposed to shoot with Rashmika.  And that evening, I remember the Pushpa team calling us and they wanted Rashmika for the next day.  At 4:30 in the evening, we're taking a call that Rashmika is not going to be available for us tomorrow and we can't shoot the scene we were supposed to shoot.  So we decided to advance the shoot of that scene, which was supposed to happen on a much later date.

It was done in a bit of a rush.  Most of that scene was actually shot in the night, brilliantly lit by Krishnan Vasanth where you won't even realize it's shot in the night.  There was a particular shot that I had taken when we were still fighting against time to finish it before daylight is gone.  I never shoot like that, but I felt like, "No, I have what I need. I've got it."  And then I come to edit and I realize the length of the track-in into Vikram... it just felt not enough.  It just felt like I hadn't caught the right rhythm.  And because I was shooting in such a rush to finish that shot before we lost sunlight, in hindsight I felt like I hadn't made the right decision.

It kept irking me.  I was like, "What do I do about this?" I don't want to ask for a reshoot for this one thing.  I've never done a reshoot in my life, never.  I've made three films, I've never re-shot anything. And then suddenly I had this idea one day, I was like, "What if I intercut the two scenes?" And suddenly it felt like I have enough, the sustain was enough.  If I go somewhere else and come back there... having gone somewhere else and come back to it, it felt like that sustain was suddenly enough.  This is why I did the intercut.  But having done the intercut, I suddenly said, "Wow, it's working much better as an intercut."  I'm not intelligent enough to have cracked it at a paper level, but having done it, I was like, "Hey, both the scenes work so much better because they're now being intercut."

Ram: I firmly believe that when you're passionate about something, happy accidents will happen.

Thematic Exposition: Professor Sudheer’s advice

Ram: There was one scene with Professor Sudheer where you do a reasonable amount of editorializing.  How do you decide when you need to have that one final push to deliver the intended messages of a film?  I mean, do you feel like there is this need to convey all of this in one scene to make sure that every member of the audience gets the message?

Rahul: No, the truth is that I wasn't thinking the audience needs to hear this.  I was only thinking Bhooma needs to hear this.  It's after I finished writing that scene that I felt it's expositionary.  When I was writing it, I didn't realize it.  I remember finishing writing that scene and I felt, "Oh, am I speaking too much here? Is it getting a little pedantic?"  That fear kicked in after.  But I trusted my instincts in terms of I knew it came from a very honest, organic place.

I showed Rashmika the film and I was still having issues with this scene.  I remember her watching the film, and that scene happened.  She was crying, she was smiling, she had forgotten she was in the film, and she was watching it like an audience.  And at the end, she spoke about 20 minutes about that one scene.  And she said, "You have no idea what that scene is going to do to so many young girls. I wish someone had told me those words when I was younger. I wish someone had told me those words when I was in school, when I was in college."

And I went by her instinct. I said, "Okay, for someone that scene worked so much for her, it moved her so much."

For me, it was very clear about one thing, right, that this is not a film where I'm getting pats on the back from people who anyway agree with the politics of this film.  That was one thing I was very clear about.  I don't want it to stop there.  I want this film to reach out broad, provoke, force people to think and reflect beyond that crowd who will anyway be in agreement with the politics of the film. I knew that there was no point in making this film if it doesn't reach out to them.

Crafting the Climax: Bhooma Devi becomes Durga Devi

Ram: The climax monologue was incredibly powerful.  In there, the touches are so woven into the scene. When she “obliterates the phone” (as you wrote in the script), you see a flash of red, which was nice.  You even showed her grabbing a water bottle to underline her transformation.

Rahul: Full credit to my cinematographer.  He's said, "Hey, there is a carnival going there. There are lights in play. Can I have those lights roving around the room from the beginning so that when the phone explodes, I'd like an explosion of red light?"  I responded, "Fantastic idea. That sounds great." 

Ram: By the time like she uses the guitar to just take that light away, I thought to myself that this is clever filmmaking because Rahul used every little prop in the carnival to bring to life a scene.  

Rahul: Regarding the water bottle, there is an interesting story.  I love Sujith's visual style (the director of “OG”).  He's a very dear friend of mine.  I remember calling him to my edit and I showed him the phone call scene with the father.  And I said, "Visually, I know what I want to do. I want fire, and one thing I figured out is that I need to go to a more cramped space, but there's something that I know is missing.  What do you think?"  He said, "Anna, I remember after we read the script, you telling me it's the story of Bhooma Devi who becomes a Durga by the end."  He said, "Anna, treat it like... you anyway have this fire element.  Imagine like Durga Devi is walking out of the room and you're giving her a haarati and an abhishekam before you take her to the stage." I exclaimed, "Wow, that makes so much sense."

And it just unlocked something in my head.  My point of view had changed, and the shot division had changed with it.  And suddenly it had meaning.  The fire was now a haarati.  And the water, interestingly, was there's this guy drinking water, she snatches it, and she was actually supposed to pour it on her head, which was supposed to be the abhishekam.  Just before we were going to shoot that shot, I tell Rashmika, "Just snatch that bottle and take a sip, pour it on your head. That becomes your abhishekam, and throw the bottle away."  Her makeup artist came running to me and she said, "Sir, there's a problem there. If she pours the water on her head, all the color is going to go away. We've used a color where it's not waterproof."  I didn't want that because to me, he uses those colors to shame her and humiliate her.  She's now got it on her, and I was very clear about that she goes there in all her glory.  I wanted those colors on her. I said, "No, I can't have the colors wash off." So I said, "Okay, you know what? Just drink it and throw it off, Rashmika."

If you notice, there is a particular scene when he talks about Vikram in the first half, that's the first time he starts gaslighting her, the camera slowly moves up above her eye level.  From that point in the film, nowhere does the camera ever come down below her eye level.  The camera is always looking down on her, except when she's with Durga.  The first time the camera actually comes below eye level is in the climax when she's holding that guitar and standing in front of him.  For me, the guitar felt more like a trishul.

I had a massive issue with one thing.  Bhooma is not the kind of person who will disrespect a musical instrument and the fact that somebody spent money to buy it.  On the day of the shoot, in my new script, I had written a line where just as she's grabbing his guitar, she says, "I'm really sorry, I will buy you a new one."  In dubbing, I got Rashmika to say it, it just didn't feel right.  It was really diluting the mood.  In my head, I told Rashmika, "It's okay, we'll not have that line now because it's just not working there. But between you and me, we should know that Bhooma later got that guy a new guitar!"

Concluding Remarks

Ram: Those are all the questions that I had for you.

Rahul: I had a beautiful conversation.  Now I'm thinking how I wish we had shot this actually.  For people who love the film, I think they would have loved to have heard this conversation.  I don't think anybody went into this level of detailing.

Ram: Thank you so much.  You made such a deep film.  To dive deep into it along with you was my pleasure.

***

A true fanboy moment for me!  Thanks, Rahul!

My journey with Karna

Note: If you are unfamiliar with the Indian epic Mahabharat, you may not be able to understand significant portions of this article. 

The passing on of actor Pankaj Dheer a few weeks ago resulted in my Twitter timeline - and my mind - getting flooded with memories of the glorious Mahabharat.  The series took India by storm when it was aired on national television between 1988 and 1990.  The faces of the actors have, over time, become inextricably linked to what we imagine of the characters in the epic.  Dheer turned in a magnificent performance as Karna, arguably one of the most fascinating characters of the epic.  His recent death brought back memories of a time when I rooted for the Karna character, even though I knew the eventuality.  I remember feeling indignant when Karna, before the war, was tricked into parting with his protective armor (the kavach) and earrings (the kundal), elements that were meant to make him physically invincible.  And how despite this, his brilliance as an archer meant that there was no straightforward way of defeating him.  At the same time, the passing of Dheer also made me pause and reflect on how my perception of Karna, and by extension, friendship, has evolved over time.

The TV series was first aired between my ages of seven and nine.  Karna was truly special to me.  There was something endearing about how loyalty, as a trait, drove his life’s choices.  The way he treated the parents who adopted him, his gurus and, above all, his friend Duryodhana, were all marked by the core value of loyalty.  That the undying loyalty was, in a way, the root cause of his death at the hands of Arjuna, felt utterly unfair.  He was, like Bheeshma, a fundamentally good man on the ‘wrong’ side.  That Karna’s death also carried a life lesson with it, was not something that I fully realized when the series was aired.  At that time, my dominant feeling was that he deserved better.  Over time, I began to view him differently. 

In some ways, Karna made us see the best of Duryodhana while Duryodhana made us see the worst of Karna.  We instinctively associate Karna with putting friendship on a pedestal.  But Duryodhana, for all his flaws, was a fantastic friend too.  He never looked down upon his friend despite the apparent differences in their socio-economic status.  When Karna felt insulted by Bheeshma in the initial stages of the war, Duryodhana did not take advantage of Karna’s inherently grateful attitude for his own benefit.  And when Karna lost his life, you could sense that the loss crippled Duryodhana emotionally more than the deaths of his 99 brothers put together.  On the other hand, Karna’s words and actions during the horror meted out to Draupadi and the slaying of Abhimanyu (flouting the norms of war), were rare but indefensible acts of inhumanity by a person largely associated with lofty ideals.  If not for his association with Duryodhana, these blots on his character may have never happened. 

Their friendship may have been built on loyalty and trust.  But that gratitude blinded Karna in many ways.  Given the enormity of the insults that he had borne prior and the sweeping changes that Duryodhana subsequently brought to his life, Karna arguably felt an inexorable need to accept Duryodhana as is, warts and all.  While Karna may have brought to the fore Duryodhana’s supremely laudable traits as a friend, there was little beyond their bond that Karna could influence positively. 

In my own life, friendships are an integral part of who I am.  I have fabulous friendships that have stood the test of time.  I have had my fair share of disappointments too.  But my intent here is to not dissect my relationships.  I would like to, instead, share what I currently think of as the core elements of a deep friendship.  These are derived from not only my lived-in experiences but also my attempts to reframe the lens through which I saw and romanticized characters like Karna. 

In my book, the best of friends know when you need them to stay by your side as a steadying influence.  They know when to speak to you to share their wisdom.  They equally know when to prod you to listen to your mind’s voice and maneuver your way out of the curveballs that life sometimes throws at you.  They know to not make you feel judged and feel comfortable in your own skin.  They equally assume the responsibility of giving you tough love, whilst holding you to the highest standards of honesty and propriety.  Most importantly, they think about you holistically, beyond the bond they share with you, enabling you to grow as a person. 

If I were to view Karna and Duryodhana through the above kaleidoscope of thoughts, I am not sure that I admire their entire friendship as much as I do facets of them as individuals.  I still think of Karna not choosing to go to the side of the Pandavas, as a stunning act of bravery, not just sacrifice.  I still admire the fact that the headstrong Duryodhana could exhibit the kind of sensitivity towards Karna that many other casteist characters in the epic could not.  But ultimately, the misplaced idealism of Karna and the refusal of Duryodhana to be fair and righteous, meant that their deaths and loss in the war were an inevitability.  A loss that is meant to stingingly remind us that beyond loyalty and gratitude, it is truth and justice that will prevail.  And genuine friends know that those values are the enduring kavach and kundal that make you morally invincible. 

Half mirror, Half magnifying glass: My review of “The Girlfriend”

There is a scene in Rahul Ravindran’s “The Girlfriend” where two women (Rashmika Mandanna and Rohini) are positioned behind the front door of a house.  The door looks framed like the bars of a prison.  The patriarchal attitude in that house seemed to have seamlessly passed on from one generation to the next, with the broad strokes intact, the difference being only in the little details.  We see two women, one a victim who has accepted it with a quiet resignation and one who has just had an epiphany on what her life might turn out to be.  Moments later, part of the door opens, and one woman is no longer behind bars, so to say.  This sequence encapsulates all that is surefooted about this film.  Rahul’s lines are thought provoking.  The actors’ silences are loaded with meaning.  The editing by Chota K Prasad is sharp - the consecutive shots of the two women in a similar looking saree evoked a rapturous response in the theater where I watched the film.  DOP Krishnan Vasant’s focus shifts are unobtrusive yet precise.  In short, everything comes together, not just in this scene but also the film. 

“The Girlfriend” is the tale of Bhooma, a girl whose journey of self-realization leads to her discovering a version of herself that she didn’t know existed.  When we first see her, she has just joined an MA English Literature course.  When the Professor (an endearingly dignified Rahul) asks her for her motivation to join the course, she speaks of her aspiration to write a book that would inspire children the way other authors inspired her in her childhood.  Right off the bat, the earnestness endears us to this character and pulls us into her world.  We gradually see that she is, as soft as she may seem on the outside, filled with a quiet but steely resolve to maximize her ability.  A relationship with a man-child (a supremely convincing Dheekshith Shetty) turns around her world topsy-turvy.  The film proceeds to take us on a ride into her world and her psyche in the most intimate, intricate manner possible.  Rashmika holds this film together with an incandescent performance that is seen to be believed.  After her stupendous work in “Dear Comrade”, this is arguably her most nuanced, layered and searing performance in a role that is superbly written.

Rahul is not only a sensitive, sensible and progressive writer but also one who has a tremendous handle on the craft of filmmaking that allows him to bring his vision to screen fully.  It manifests itself not just in the way he has collaborated with his superlative technical team or his music director. (Hesham Abdul Wahab’s music and Prashanth Vihari’s background score add tremendous depth to the film.)  It is also evident in the delicious little details, choices and observations.  For instance, we see a young girl in a crouched position.  And then we cut to the adult version with a near identical pose.  Another example is the tentative way Rashmika holds her backpack in front as if to guard herself.  Or how she cannot bring herself to fully say, “boyfriend” in response to being called, “girlfriend.”  Even a dupatta gets its own little arc and payoff in a series of shots spread across the film.  If the sharp, thought-provoking dialogues make us hold a mirror to ourselves and our problematic notions of patriarchy and male chauvinism, the exquisite detailing is a magnifying glass into the world of the titular character.

Another aspect of Rahul’s writing that deserves approbation is the shaping of the supporting characters, even the minor ones.  The dignity with which Bhooma treats a guy who had feelings for her is lovely, given how rarely we see it on screen.  I loved the way she delivered the line, “you are such a nice guy, ra.”  I also admired the fact that the Durga character (a wonderful Anu Emmanuel) befriends Bhooma after noticing her earnestness, despite her own prior jealousy.  Her confession later is a standout scene.  I wished though that Rahul had fleshed out their friendship a little more.  She is largely missing in the second half except for the climactic portions.  Rahul, as the Professor, has some of the film’s best lines at the most opportune moments.  There is always a risk of editorializing when a character voices out the core themes of a film but Rahul walks the tightrope walk expertly.

As engaging, moving and motivating as “The Girlfriend” is, it is also an important film.  We have had scores of films where toxic masculinity is glorified and obsessive behavior is characterized as some sort of a virtue and a sign of deep, undying love.  Without moralizing or sermonizing, Rahul lets his story organically set right all that is wrong with portrayal of woman-man relationships in films.  In the process, he and his cast and crew give us an intense, memorable film.

The original Vasantha Raagam - An essay celebrating 25 years of Vasanth’s “Rhythm”

 The late Roger Ebert was known for his pithy and memorable lines about the movies.  One of my favorite phrases of his was from his review of Martin Scorsese’s Cape Fear.  He wrote that the most personal films of Scorsese’s were “torn out of the director’s soul.”  Vasanth’s Rhythm (2000) turns 25 on September 15^th.  That it is a sensitively written, beautifully acted and technically superlative film has been well documented over the past 25 years, including on this blog.  Vasanth has made exceptional films before and after Rhythm.  But as a film that feels “torn out of the director’s soul,” Rhythm will always be the one for Vasanth.*     

Directors have pet themes and tropes that get the best out of them.  For Vasanth, the main characters of his story acting in selfless ways, elders being treated with care and empathy, and they, in turn, acting with much sensitivity and wisdom, are all themes that make him shine brightest in his films.  In Keladi Kanmani (1990) SPB and Radhika decided to sacrifice their love for the sake of SPB’s daughter.  The daughter, as an adult, seeks redemption when faced with a life-threatening illness and yearns to reunite them.  In Nee Paathi Naan Paathi (1991) Gowthami lets go of the love of her life just so that Heera does not have to raise a child out of wedlock, an unerasable scar that Gowthami nursed throughout her life.  His other films in the 1990s did touch upon varied subjects, some hugely impactful (such as the blockbuster Aasai), while others not quite at the same level.    

When I first watched Rhythm at the time of its release in September 2000, it felt like the quintessential Vasanth film, yes.  But the way he brought out his pet themes, also gave me the feeling that only he could have made this film.  So distinct and definite were the auteur’s touches throughout.  Vasanth once mentioned in an interview that books find you more than you find them.  I would like to think that this story (loosely inspired by a real-life incident) found Vasanth. 

The story of two people who lost their spouses in the same accident, deserved to be treated with dignity and patience.  The pacing of the film is just perfect for the story that it seeks to tell.  The unhurried pace allows scenes to breathe and for emotions to register.  Vasanth’s patented understated humor is always at hand to leaven the seriousness in a manner that is pitch perfect.  There is not a single tonally inconsistent note in this film.  Take for instance, the poignant scene at the temple, involving Arjun and his parents, played wonderfully by Vatsala Rajagopal and Nagesh.  Nagesh cracks a joke about the delivery boy escaping unscathed in an accident.  But that seamlessly leads to a discussion about Arjun’s filial responsibilities imposing a burden on him.  Vatsala tenderly holds Arjun’s face and asks, “engalukaaga kalyanam pannika koodaathaa?”  Arjun does not utter a word in response.  But the camera does not cut away from these characters immediately.  It shows Arjun helping his mother down the steps. 

The film’s most beloved scene – the dinner table sequence – also follows the same approach where the scene unfolds like its own short story, with a beginning, middle and end, replete with seamless shifts of tone.  When Nagesh cracks the comment about the food (and the papad), Arjun wonders why his mom is not enjoying the joke.  That segues into the conversation about Meena leaving town abruptly.  Arjun slowly walks over to his mom, puts his hands around her and expresses concern about her health.  When the mom utters the movie’s most famous line, the vocal in the background is ever so delicate to accentuate the scene’s impact without overpowering it.  But notice how even here, there are no dramatic gestures.  Arjun wipes away her tears, puts on her glasses, gently pats her on her shoulder and walks away.  The little moment in front of the bathroom mirror rounds out this scene beautifully because we get to know of his disappointment which he withheld from his parents. 

The flashbacks in this film are a lesson in economical storytelling.  We see Meena fall for Ramesh Aravind in the scenes prior to the “gala galavena…” song.  After that song, we immediately get to the powerful scene where Lakshmi shows up at Meena’s house, threatening to scuttle the alliance.  As the scene ends, the sounds of the nadaswaram lead us to the wedding of Meena and Ramesh Aravind.  But neither flashback comes across as rushed, such is the finesse of the writing, staging and editing (Sreekar Prasad).  The flashbacks too, showcase the selflessness of the characters in an utterly realistic manner.  When Jyotika explains to Arjun’s friend (Ajay Ratnam) about her fears, she lists everyday things such as Arjun diving from a height into the swimming pool, to make her point.  When Arjun later resigns his job for the sake of Jyotika, the playful manner in which he says, “ra-jee-naa-maa” and the stunned reaction from Jyotika are all moments when the drama plays out in the most lifelike manner, never once feeling theatrical.

Another aspect of Rhythm that contributes to its verisimilitude is how characters move forward the plot as opposed to events feeling manufactured out of a screenplay.  The coincidental meeting of Arjun and Meena at the bookstore in Ooty would not have meant a thing if not for Lakshmi.  If you notice, Arjun bids goodbye to Meena after a brief interaction.  It is only when Meena tells Lakshmi of the train accident does Lakshmi feel a strong urge to invite Arjun over for a meal.  And it is during that meeting in their house where Meena opens up to Arjun about her true feelings for him.  The psychological acuity of the writing results in many such scenes feeling believable given our knowledge of the characters that were established in the first half of the film.

AR Rahman’s magnificent work for the film extends beyond the scintillating numbers anchored on the five forces of nature.  The background score, part of which derives from the instrumentals and tunes of the songs, is outstanding.  Once Meena moves to Ooty, there is a scene on the phone where she fears that Arjun may have been hurt in a bomb blast in Mumbai.  If Meena’s contained expressions are masterful, the pounding drums (which are resounding, but not loud) add to the dread and anxiety experienced by Meena, and by extension, us.

25 years post its release, Rhythm has aged as gracefully as the elders in the film.  The film has found a progressively widening audience thanks to television, youtube and social media.  For every fan, the film speaks to them in a way that feels wholly personal, yet the appeal is universal.  Vasanth has made remarkable films before and after Rhythm.  But for numerous admirers of his work, Rhythm will always be the film that was not just “torn out of the director’s soul” but also the film that has touched our souls in the most enduring manner possible.

***

*Thank you, Subha Jayanagaraja ma'am, for the editorial suggestion.

And there will be light

Trigger warning: This essay contains a non-graphic mention of a cricketer’s suicide.

There are empathetic words.  There are thoughtful gestures.  There are meaningful actions.  And there is, “A Day for Thorpey.”  The great former English cricketer Graham Thorpe had died by suicide a year ago.  In his honor and in a quest to raise awareness of mental health issues, the Surrey cricket authorities designed this past Friday (Thorpe’s birth anniversary) as “A Day for Thorpey,” mobilizing fundraising for Mind, a charity organization.  Several current and former cricketers partook willingly in this noble cause.  But one tribute stood out to me.  It was by Thorpe’s friend and teammate, Nasser Hussain.  He wrote a moving tribute to Thorpe.  One line, in particular, was moving: “He was always there for me in my darkest moments really and that was really what I was saddest about now that I was not there for him in his darkest times.”

Over the past few years, there has been an increased awareness of the insidious and debilitating effects of depression.  The messily tangled threads of societal stigma and callous insensitivity that were once intertwined into our collective thinking are being gradually extricated from the mental fiber of our society.  But are we at an ideal state yet?  I think that the answer is evident from the sufferings of the Thorpes of this world and their caregivers.

I want to delve a little deeper into the line that Hussain wrote about not being “there” for Thorpe.  In the same article, he wrote about the number of times that he wanted to reach out to Thorpe but a fear of stating the wrong thing led to delay and demur.  Firstly, I sincerely hope that Hussain does not live in regret.  Because his predicament was real and understandable.  It is never easy to reach out to someone in mental distress (especially if we are not professionally qualified) when they have not explicitly stated that they would like to discuss their problems with us.  And if and when we do, we may not always– best intentions notwithstanding – help them in a way that would benefit them. 

The difficulties that people face, are complex and varied and may not come with easy solutions.  But I will point out three things that I believe rarely work.  The first is expressing haste in offering a solution.  The second is to make one feel like they might be better off ‘ignoring’ or ‘reacting less’ to the problem(s) that they are facing.  And the third is to paint an unrealistically rosy picture of the present or the future, in a bid to give them hope.  The truth is, all three of these may have been done with genuine care, affection and a sincere desire to help.  But whenever I have gone through periods of mental turmoil, none of the above has worked for me in improving my mental wellbeing.

Some people believe in taking a journey inward to process their feelings and arrive at a homeostasis.  Others may be distinctly more comfortable in sharing, with trained professionals or otherwise.  Some may expect support from people whom they consider their support system.  Others might not wait for anyone to check in on them.  The point is, the level of comfort that one may have in opening up about their travails, differs from person to person.  For instance, one would never know what Thorpe would have truly benefited from.  As Hussain notes, even when people visited Thorpe’s house to check on him, he would not want to get out of bed to see them.  Having seen him as a nimble-footed batsman, Hussain alludes that Thorpe’s emotionally paralyzed state would have been a tragedy to witness in person.

There are multiple accounts of Thorpe’s loving wife and children (not to mention, his friends) all striving to pull him out of the depressive state of mind that he was in.  Sometimes, a sufferer might be so deep into a dark tunnel with their eyes tightly shut, that they might not be able to see their loved ones holding a light for them.  They may not be able to hear their loved ones say, “this too shall pass.”  Writer Sujatha once said that it is important to believe in at least one thing “unquestioningly.”  Some people might have a supreme power as their anchor.  I have a support system as an anchor.  The way I interpret Sujatha’s line is that during tough times, we need to hold onto something to keep us going.  An anchor that makes us believe – “unquestioningly” – that there will be better times ahead.  That there is meaning in living life.  That we have a sense of purpose that will drive us in the right path. 

An almost blind faith or belief – be it in fellow human beings, God, or anything else – is what could enable one to open their eyes to the paths and possibilities that could lie ahead, be it therapy, tapping more into one’s support system for perspective, or other coping mechanisms.  Seeking professional help is not a sign of weakness.  Instead, it should be seen as a sign of one empowering oneself with a validated, even if underutilized, approach to chip away at their struggles.  And as one works out an approach, they should give themselves the license to share only what they want, with whom they want. 

At various points in my life, I have been the recipient of immense kindness, sensitivity and thoughtfulness.  I would like to think that in a few instances, I have been able to extend a bit of emotional support to others.  At the same time, I am acutely aware of the fact that I have felt let down by people of whom I expected more, during trying times.  And I have also disappointed people by not being there for them when a little more time and attention from me may have been welcome.  I don’t think that I am alone in having gone through these myriad experiences.  I just wish that there comes a time in the future where breakthrough advances in the fields of psychology and psychiatry create a lasting impact on people’s lives.  Until then, let us hope that when people feel beset by darkness, they find a way to convince themselves that there will be light.  And one day, when they are able to be so, they may be that light.

The Singles and Twos: An essay on three kind men

I do not know cricketer Sanju Samson personally.  But something tells me that he is a kind man in real life.  I write, “…in real life” as though he plays fictional characters on screen!  But what I mean by that is, my exposure to Samson is limited to those moments on the screen, mostly on the field and a few glimpses off it.  Recently, I watched a clip of his interaction with a cheeky little kid to whom he gifted his cap.  After watching the clip, I mentioned on Twitter that the kid’s love for the game will increase manifold.  I also added that the child’s belief in the value of kindness will grow.  It will, if he remembers to grab that moment, bottle it in his mind and pour out the same kindness unto others when(ever) he has the opportunity.  This interaction made me think of the times in my own life where people, owing to their fame, position or age, did not have to extend kindness to me but they did.  And in the process, created a lasting impact on me.  In this piece, I have picked three people and my interactions with them where I was in the shoes of the kid whose evening was lit up by Samson. (You may not know two of the three people but it shouldn’t matter, trust me.)

Diwali 1993.  That was a time when my love for cricket was at its peak – not that it has ever ebbed!  I had developed not just a love for the game but also its history.  I had watched highlights (heard of video cassettes, anyone?) of more vintage games than most 12-year-olds.  I would speak of specific strokes and deliveries from games played at a time even before my parents knew of each other’s existence.  In this context, my maternal Uncle, who was (and is) the best friend of former cricketer Krish Srikkanth, was going to the latter’s place to celebrate the festival.  When my grandpa got to know of this, he had asked my uncle if he could take me along.  He did. 

I had the excitement of an Energizer bunny that entire day.  When we reached his house, there was a huge crowd of his friends and relatives.  I could barely get a glimpse of him.  I watched him play tennis in the court adjoining his house.  I was yet to get my proper introduction.  When it was time for bursting crackers, he led the way, with the stash of fireworks.  I was eagerly awaiting an opportunity for my idol to see me.  But I was among several kids on the street.  His first words to me were, “Thambi, pattasu vekkariya?” (Kid, do you want to burst crackers?)  He did not know that I was his best friend’s nephew.  I happily accepted his kind offer.  The real fireworks were happening inside my heart, which was beating in sixes and fours! 

Later that evening, my Uncle introduced me to Srikkanth.  I asked him what his favourite shot was.  He said, “It’s the straight drive.”  Without missing a beat, I asked, “What about that square drive off Roberts?!” He was pleasantly surprised – shocked, maybe? – that a 12-year-old knew of a specific shot that he had played when the kid was a two-year old infant!  I have known him for the past 32 years.  I have grown older, with silver linings in my sideburns.  In the meantime, he has grown progressively younger at heart.  When I visited him a few months back, he spoke with much kindness and affection, urging me to take good care of my health.  The visit was brief.  But the impact of the interaction lingered in the way a good movie refuses to leave your mind after exiting the theatre.

One such ‘good movie’ refused to leave the mind of Mr MSJ Venkatraman.  MSJV Uncle was my mom’s manager in the early 90s.  I had this habit of stopping by Mom’s office during the lunch hour when I had exams. (I would go there to tell her how well I did!  You see, I had no confidence issues as a kid!)  Or during the evening, when I would accompany our driver.  I loved visiting her workplace since it was filled with people who were unfailingly sweet to me. 

MSJV Uncle was one of my favourites.  I had once gotten full marks in a bi-weekly test, a performance that I thought that merited his attention more than my mom’s work!  While I was waiting for my mom to wrap up her day, I knocked on the door of his cabin.  He welcomed me with a huge smile.  When I shared the news of my score, not for a moment did he sound or look dismissive.  He said, “Congrats, man!  On the way back home, ask Kousalya to get you a Five Star chocolate!”  He added, “There’s this movie about a little girl.  Do watch it.  It ends with a shot of the girl happily going on a bike ride.  Fantastic film!”  The movie, of course, was Vasanth’s remarkable debut, Keladi Kannmani.  I watched it afterwards.  I didn’t think much about his recommendation at the time.  But now I know why he liked it.  He probably saw a bit of himself in the lead character played by SPB.  The innate affection towards and an unfussy manner of demonstrating respect for everyone, regardless of age.  To this day, I remember the sweetness of his character as much as I do the Five Star that I gleefully had my mother buy me that day.

Sweetness, of course, comes in different flavours.  Just like how product labels separate out natural versus added sugars, there are people whom we fondly remember as naturally sweet.  One such naturally sweet man I remember with much gratitude is my maternal uncle NR Murali.  When I was 12, my grandpa died in an accident.  NR (as I affectionately called him; it used to be “Murali mama” when I was a kid) was one person who showed up day in and day out to show support to my grandma (to whom he was very close) and the rest of us.  Apart from the demonstrative moments of solace at a time of grief, there were several quieter ones where he just let my grandma purge to the extent she needed. 

It would have been easy for him to ignore me because kids are rarely the focus in grieving homes (from what I have seen).  But he did not.  He cheered me up with the help of cricket, something that cemented our bond for life.  He would spend quality time with me chatting about the game, its history and teaching me a thing or two about technique. (Now you know how I learned of Srikkanth’s square drive off Roberts!) NR would take me and my cousin (his son) along to cricket games at the Chepauk stadium.  More than one individual moment, I am simply thankful for the time that he had for me.  I just wish I had more time with him, for he passed away in 2008, aged just 58.

Krish Srikkanth.  MSJV Uncle.  NR Murali.  Three people from different walks of life.  Despite the differences in my relationship with them, what binds them together in my eyes are two related traits.  And those are the ability to provide a sense of belonging and exhibit kindness through little gestures.  Kids learn a lot less about kindness through story books, cartoons or verbal advice than they do by observing the behaviour of elders around them.  At that age, they may not be able to articulate what those little moments mean to them – I certainly could not.  Singles and twos in a long cricket partnership do not make it to a game’s highlights package.  But astute observers of a game know of their importance.  Similarly, little gestures of kindness are what keep the scoreboard of our lives tick.  We just need to be alert enough to observe and thoughtful enough to acknowledge the people who, through their acts of kindness, make our partnerships with them meaningful and memorable.