Let’s get all emotional: A review of Karthik Subbaraj’s “Dorothy”

There is a rather extraordinary moment in the first hour of “Dorothy.”  The two leads of the film, Karthi (Rishikanth) and Subbu (Sananth) are on either edge of the frame.  A heinous act happens in the middle of the frame, at a distance.  One of them asks, “Why are you getting all emotional for this?”  Pat comes the response, “Why aren’t you getting all emotional for this?”  This pithy exchange, the lines spoken and the manner in which the sequence is staged, are symptomatic of what makes this film work.  “Dorothy” is Karthik Subbaraj’s 10^th full-length feature, which I reckon is his best work yet.

Karthik’s films work best when the twists and turns of his screenplay feel completely organic in hindsight.  His films also work well when his writing suggests that the characters’ actions, more than circumstances (which can feel manufactured), drive the narrative.  In "Dorothy", his writing is at its finest.  He has structured his screenplay ever so intricately that payoffs occur in the most unexpected ways.  (One character says, “anbuku edhuku da kaasu <expletive>?”  Later on, we see a character hurl away currency notes in a pivotal scene.)  His sense of humor, at times earthy and at times twisted and dark, leavens the most serious of situations without feeling tonally inappropriate. 

The craft in his films, which has always been top notch, is probably the most invisibly effective here.  S Thirunavukarasu’s cinematography is stupendous.  The way the camera pans between the two characters in the bus stand scene, is a marvel.  In a tense action scene, there are frames with just the barren landscape and the characters entering it instead of the usual motion sickness-inducing focus on the ones duking it out.  It enhances the tension in a way that the typical breakneck pace of the gravity-defying kicks (that we are accustomed to in Tamil cinema) rarely does.  The editing by Ganesh Siva is…razor sharp. The father’s blessings in the theatre, cutting to the same pose outside a temple, is an inspired comic touch.  The movie references are numerous yet seamlessly woven in. (I especially liked the scene where we hear the lines, “vaazha pirandhaayada…” play in the background.)

“Dorothy” is the story of…let me say no more than ‘of two friends.’  The rest of it is best discovered in the confines of a movie theater.  The childhood of these two leads is showcased in a delightful little segment, filled with subtle character establishing moments, peppered with uproarious humor.  Once the film shifts to the adult life of these characters, Karthik assembles the pieces in the first half like a puzzle solver, showing us everything bit by bit before things change drastically afterwards.  As I mentioned earlier, there isn’t a single lazy reference or a superfluous moment.  But the moment the narrative hones in on one particular character transformation, the tension is ratcheted up immensely.  I watched this film in a packed theater and was literally at the edge of my seat during a key scene on a hilltop.  I was happy to not fall off.  But I would have been just as glad, as a movie lover, had I actually!

Where I really do want to fall is at the feet of Ilayaraja, who has composed one of the most amazing scores of his long and illustrious career.  The background theme that plays in the portions after Subbu and Karthi meet after a hiatus, is haunting.  And “Muthumani”, both the lilting tune and the lyrics take one's breath away, for the sheer appropriateness for the situation.  His lyrics too, especially the divine references, do as much to elevate the core theme in the five-minute duration of the song, as Karthik does in the 150-minute length of the film.

Karthik extracts some splendid performances from all his actors, be it the leads or the supporting cast.  Sananth is supremely effective in showcasing a gamut of emotions in a difficult role.  He makes several of the tender moments in the last act of the film work solely because of the control he has with his facial expressions.  Rishikanth, who is having a dream run, owns the final 10 minutes of the film, be it the way he delivers some superbly written lines or in his now-patented gentle smiles, nailing the key moments of his character’s arc.  Keerthy Suresh is a consummate performer who does not need ample screen time to make an impression.  Just with a few exquisite expressions, she makes some of the crucial moments in the film work wonderfully.  She also possesses a certain unforced sweetness in her on-screen persona, which Karthik utilizes beautifully.  Muthukumar is scarily effective in his role.  That he is utterly believable without resorting to over-the-top theatrics makes his performance that much more viscerally impactful.

Prior to its release, “Dorothy” received a fair amount of completely unfair reactions based on mere speculation.  The blind prejudice against anything LGBTQ-related is exactly what the film opposes.  The film, in a non-preachy manner, advocates for love and acceptance of every human being regardless of how they identify themselves.  Except for one scene at the end where we sense a bit of editorializing on the part of the director, what we see is a narrative which invites us to witness a few lives whilst questioning the biases, prejudices and hatred that we carry as a society.  The film, through its memorable lead characters, urges us to possibly shed all the weight of negativity, to allow ourselves to luxuriate in the buoyancy of positive emotions.  As seen in that aforementioned shot of the two leads, the film asks us to extend our empathy and display our emotions for the right reasons.  So, if someone sees you vehemently defend this film with the question, “why are you getting all emotional,” just ask them in return, “why aren’t you?!” 

Intermission: Musings of a middle-aged man

Anyone who knows me even on a passing level, knows that I place a fair amount of importance on birthdays.  I am good at remembering dates without reminders and I do enjoy, in whatever small way I can, making people feel special on their birthdays.  I can hear the voice of your mind: “But people deserve to be treated well on all days, not just their birthdays.”  Yes, of course!  But in a way that exclamation point that you just saw at the end of the previous line emphasizes an emotion, a wish on someone’s birthday is just an exclamation point.  It does not take away the importance of what precedes or succeeds it.  In a far contrast from enjoying and celebrating others’ birthdays, I am quite different on my own birthday.  Whilst I appreciate the blessings and wishes, in recent years, I see my birthday as an opportunity to pause and reflect on the year that has concluded and the year that is about to begin.  This June, I turned 45.  For some reason, this was the first year that I truly felt like a middle-aged person (that I have technically been since turning 40).  But far from feeling any strong emotion, I felt more reflective.  It felt less like an exclamation point and more like an intermission point.

In Indian films, filmmakers take great pains to ensure that the pre-intermission scene of a film finishes on a high of some sort, be it dramatic, suspenseful or comical, depending on the genre.  During the 10-minute break, viewers are supposed to feel a dash of anticipation about what is to come.  None of that happened when I turned 45!  My close ones made me feel truly special, no doubt.  But on and after that day, I was just looking back at the ‘first half' of my life.  `

I can sum up the first half of my life in one line: I have led an ordinary life surrounded by extraordinary people.  I have experienced lows, highs, delight and despair in no particular order.  But one constant in my life has been the presence of everyday heroes.  The “extraordinary” aspect of them doesn’t come from achievements that you read about in newspapers.  They are not the supporting cast in the story of my life.  They are the heroes whose heroism comes from stability, not sensationalism.  The kind of stability that makes the peaks and troughs of life feel closer to homeostasis than they sometimes are.  Loss is an inevitable part of life.  I am now old enough to have gone through a considerable amount of loss (more than what I bargained for though).  But even as I think of the heroes who are not part of my life anymore, the memories have stayed, just like those impactful flashbacks in films!

As an aspiring movie critic, I am always interested in the arcs shaped by writers and traversed by the characters that they write.  In a similar vein, if I were to look at my own life's journey, there are two aspects where I have changed a lot as a person over time.  One is idealism.  And the second is display of emotion. 

I used to be a lot more idealistic in my thoughts.  My belief in the power of goodness to solve all the world’s problems was unshakeable.  But I am certainly not the wide-eyed fellow that I once was.  I do not readily accept people into my life like I used to.  None of this is to suggest that I am a perfect man who became cynical because of feeling let down by people.  Far from it.  I am simply stating that with all my flaws and virtues, in order to lead my life with a certain amount of centeredness, I have needed to be a little more measured about whose goodness that I can take for granted and whom I need to be chary about.  In a strange way, this cynicism has also liberated me from the burden of missed expectation.  Outside of my inner circle, I have gotten better at not expecting the world to be benevolent to me.  Lesser expectations, after all, do lead to lesser disappointments.  

Not unrelated to the insidious erosion of idealism is the fact that my displays of emotion are restricted to an extremely small set of people, the same people whose goodness I take for granted.  I have gotten better at holding my emotional cards closer to my chest than I used to.  A younger version of me was all emotion, a person whose heart was displayed on a sleeve that had as much privacy as a shirt on a clothing store mannequin.  I still wish that my face was more opaque and not as easily accessible a mirror to my emotions.  But I know how I was and how I am now.  I am not suggesting that one is better than the other.  I just know that I have changed as a person.

A crucial aspect of middle age is related to the second part of that term- ageing!  I am very conscious of the inextricable link between one’s physical and mental health.  I do not take my health for granted.  I do smile when I look at the greying hair and the wrinkles on my face and the fact that my agility, which was something that I could take for granted when I was younger, is something that I work hard for.  I am acutely aware of the fact that I have to work on my diet and exercise that much harder to be able to show up at the same level of physical health that I could achieve with much less effort.  But I suppose that it comes with the territory!  

I am also at an age where I see loved ones belonging to previous generations become septuagenarians and octogenarians.  The heart refuses to accept that they are also ageing.  I just wish that there is a time machine to slow or reverse their ageing.  But I am equally glad to see that they place emphasis on having an active lifestyle, engaging their minds and bodies.  I once read an article in the Time magazine that spoke of how, contrary to Parkinson’s Law, time expands to fill the work that you set out to do.  I only hope and pray that time keeps expanding for the (g)oldies who are dear to me.

The themes of a film are quite well-formed by the intermission point.  Similarly, the broad strokes of one’s character are in place by the time they are at a ripe young age of 45.  Lessons learned from the aforementioned everyday heroes have been registered but are not always fully internalized at the same pace.  I continue to consider myself a work in progress.  I am at an age where I have gained enough that I must now give that goodness to people who consider me a member of the supporting cast of their life. 

On that note, dear reader, the intermission is over.  Let us hope that the second half is a good one!  And that the best is yet to come.

A melody for the memory bank: My review of Suresh Krissna’s “Charukesi”

A famous Carnatic maestro named Charukesi receives arguably the worst medical diagnosis for a creative mind: that he has Alzheimer’s disease.  All his expertise and genius come to nought in a trice.  The condition worsens to the point that he recognizes neither the musical notes that comprises his life’s symphony nor his loving wife who embodies marital harmony.  Does he ever regain his memory on either the artistic or the personal front?  That is the core of “Charukesi.”  This heartwarming film is based on the stage play of the same name.  The crux of the story came from the late Crazy Mohan.  Playwright Venkat then developed it into a script for the stage.  Seasoned director Suresh Krissna has deftly adapted it for the big screen, ably aided by a fabulous team behind the screen and in front of it.

Among the biggest strengths of “Charukesi” are the performances of the principal cast.  Suhasini turns in a moving performance as the wife of the musician.  She is especially lovely in the scene at the beach at the end where she interrupts Sathyaraj (who plays…let me leave it to you to watch on screen) and says, “please do not philosophize.”  It is an instinctive reaction of a spouse who is unwilling to accept any reason for her husband’s condition.  (The writing shines like a well-polished gem in this scene.) “Thalaivasal” Vijay, over the years, has rarely gotten opportunities that have provided fodder for his immense talent.  In this film, he plays the Man Friday of Charukesi.  Watch him express his anxiety and restlessness in the scene with the doctor.  Ditto for a beautiful little moment between him and Suhasini where the latter asks him to take good care of her husband.  That he is an integral member of their family is established not only through overt lines but also through little gestures. 

Sathyaraj is cast perfectly.  I am not alluding to the tongue-in-cheek casting of him in a role that is a stark contrast to his real-life rationalistic beliefs.  He is perfect for the simple reason that he is one of those rare actors that has the knack of elevating every line with his dialogue delivery.  The Zen-like body language and the casual way of delivering profound lines, do full justice to Pa Vijay’s dialogues.  His narration of the deer story and the Vaazhakai bajji analogy, give us glimpses into what makes him so beloved as an actor.  Ramya Pandian is excellent in the scenes where she turns over a new leaf following a revelation about her past.  But the Neelambari-like posture and the shades of grey aren’t portrayed as effectively.  Given the grounded nature of the rest of the film, that little segment felt out of place. 

Holding the film together is Y Gee Mahendran, who plays the titular role.  He is marvelous in the scenes where the condition starts to affect his daily routines.  Actors playing roles where there is a medical condition involved, need to exercise great restraint in order to preserve realism.  Mahendran excels in these portions.  There is a quiet moment between husband and wife where the former repeatedly requests reassurance from the latter that he has indeed finished dinner.  The repeated lines and the deliberately loose physicality are brought out intricately by the actor. 

One may not have instinctively associated Deva with classical music.  But just like Mahendran and “Thalaivasal” Vijay, Deva also benefits from Suresh Krissna’s faith in his talents (given their long association from the days of “Annamalai”).  He rises to the occasion with a memorable album, whose undisputed highlight is the climactic song, “Vaa endrathum.”  It is masterfully rendered by Shankar Mahadevan.  Some of Pa Vijay’s lines are beautiful, bringing to life the underlying philosophy spouted by Ragadevan.  A case in point: “vandhu povadhe nam velai…vazhi nadathuvadhellam avan leelai.”  BL Sanjay’s cinematography is top-notch, be it the manner in which the top angle shots invisibly build an aura around the Ragadevan character (without overdoing the divinity aspect) or the way he has lit up Mahendran’s home for the finale. 

Films that are centered around a medical condition with a poor prognosis can easily plunge the viewer into the depths of sadness.  But “Charukesi” is different.  The delicacy of touch in Suresh Krissna’s screenplay and his surefooted direction are such that there is an air of hope and positivity throughout.  He sidesteps potentially manipulative moments in service of telling a story where the connection between great pain and greater artistry is established in an immensely thoughtful manner.  The result is a film that is an antidote to the loudness and violence of some of the commercial potboilers have been flung at us in recent times.  

In one scene, Sathyaraj observes, “avar ipo ninaivillama irukalaam.  Aana, avarode ninavugaL indha ulagathode isaiya olichikute than irukum.” (“He may be losing his memory.  But the memories of his music will continue to play in this world.”)  Taking a leaf out of Ragadevan’s book, one can say that this film may be about a musician with Alzheimer’s disease.  But it plays out as a gentle melody for the memory bank. 

***

Note: The film is streaming on Amazon Prime.

The pen never ran out of ink: A tribute to K Bhagyaraj (1953-2026)

A middle-aged schoolteacher goes to a vegetable shop.  The unsuspecting vendor invites him warmly, expecting a brief and productive interaction.  Little does the shop owner know that the teacher is a worldly-wise man who will investigate every piece of produce that he will purchase.  Anticipation turns into exasperation soon, with the owner looking to desperately get rid of the teacher from the premises.  Zinger after memorable zinger follows.  Here is the catch: the hero of this story is not the shopkeeper.  It is the teacher who is the butt of the jokes.  The film, of course, is “Mundhanai Mudichu.”  The teacher – also the writer-director – is K Bhagyaraj, who sadly passed away last week.  Many tributes have pointed out how he played the common man whose foibles and idiosyncrasies were the focal points of his films.  A persona that was disarming and charming in its own manner.  But what I wish to focus on is K Bhagyaraj, the writer. 

Bhagyaraj, as a writer, was a purist.  To him, the script and screenplay were sacrosanct.  Everything related to the film was in service of that.  It was evident in how in most of his films, the female lead always had a meaty role, sometimes overshadowing him.  It was seen in the way character actors and comedians (such as the aforementioned shopkeeper) stole the scene from right under his nose.  The word “stole” seems wrong because of the fact that he was the one who wrote the scene in the first place!  The strong anchoring to plot meant that even in his lesser films, there was never really a problem with the flow of scenes or questionable logic.  I cannot remember a Bhagyaraj film that had me bored.

“Mundhanai Mudichu” is seen as the pinnacle of his career, given the universal critical acclaim and the stunning box office success.  But to me, his best work was in the period prior.  He had an amazing run in the early 1980s where he made a variety of films at a fast clip, all memorable in their own way.  My favorite film of his is not “Mundhanai Mudichu.”  It is “Mouna GeethangaL.” 

“Mouna GeethangaL” was arguably the first film in Tamil cinema that offered a lifelike, microscopic view of a newly married couple, replete with their mutual affection, desires and even mischief.  There was something absolutely real in the conversations between Bhagyaraj and that acting powerhouse, Saritha.  There is a sequence where Bhagyaraj makes a list of women in their neighborhood, trying to proclaim that he is a squeaky-clean man, not attracted by any of them!  Pat comes a stinging question from Saritha, “How come you know all these details of these women?!”  A hilarious argument ensues.  The laughs are non-stop.  But if you watch the scene closely, not one laugh feels manufactured.  So organic is the humor. 

The affair aspect of “Mouna GeethangaL” seems a bit regressive in its handling when viewed now.  But even then, the strength of Saritha’s character is undeniable.  She is no easy pushover – far from it, in fact.  She probably had more agency than most female leads back in the day.  That was the thing about Bhagyaraj’s women characters.  They seemed to have been burdened with flawed, idiosyncratic men, whom they had to forgive and reform.  But on the flip side, they ended up having the best author-backed role in the films and walked away with all the laurels.

Much has been written about his stint in politics.  I am largely apolitical.  So, it is not something that I wish to dwell on.  But I do think that his foray into politics in the late 80s influenced his writing choices a bit.  Political innuendos and references made their way into the narratives.  Photographs of MGR and references to his political leanings featured in scenes and song lines.  For someone who had been accustomed to his almost ruthless adherence to script and screenplay, I didn’t quite enjoy these distractions.  Thankfully, this was short lived.  And he recovered form in the early 90s with films more in his style such as “Sundara Gandam” and “Rasukutty.” (As an aside, you have not lived until you have heard Bhanupriya’s rendition of “Devane…” in the former film.  It is arguably Bhagyaraj’s most hilarious scene ever.)

His last few films were varied in terms of quality and box office success.  But by then, he had built up a filmography that very few in Tamil cinema can boast of.  Even if there was not the prolificity of his heyday, one thing remained constant – his respect for writers and the art of writing.  During his peak years, he was arguably the only filmmaker who had a title credit for his story discussion group which included veterans like Kalaignanam and Thooyavan.  Many filmmakers have recounted anecdotes of his painstaking story discussions where every sequence would be ground to the finest detail.  In his later years, he was actively involved in the writers’ association.  And was known to have had a sense of equitability towards budding story writers over their intellectual rights.  In some way, shape or form, the writer in him was always alive. 

Alas, the writer is no more.  But the stamp left by his ink on Tamil cinema will be indelible for years to come.  May you rest in peace, Bhagyaraj Sir. 

Corrective Lenses Needed: An essay on respecting history

 We are living in the age of information.  Not just data.  But information.  I have lived through a time when a Google search opened infinite possibilities for the kind of raw data that one could access but had to process.  Artificial Intelligence (AI) has dramatically transformed the process of obtaining information in ways that we could have scarcely anticipated a few years ago.  One can, with a bit of effort, obtain accurate, contextualized and synthesized information on just about any topic.  Thanks in no small part to AI, there are no acceptable excuses for ignorance.

Unfortunately, there is a tremendous amount of misinformation and false narratives that are prevalent on media, especially social media, where controls are next to non-existent.  There is one area where I find the amount of falsehood, unwittingly created or otherwise, especially disturbing.  And that is to do with history.  Across completely different fields such as politics, movies and cricket, the amount of distortion that historical figures and events are subject to, bothers me considerably.

 

When it comes to sport, a prevalent but unhealthy trend on social media is to make unfair and uncharitable comparisons between current and former cricketers.  Some do it as part of a premeditated engagement farming strategy.  Others do it because they apparently do not know better.  It is not uncommon to see people diss former cricketers by stating that they could not possibly have survived in the current era.  I have never understood any merit in those statements, even if some of them (such as a comparison of batting averages or bowling strike rates) are in the ballpark of factual accuracy.  A cricketer from the 1960s is not going to be playing in the Indian Premier League as an octogenarian!  Why bring them down to bolster the image of a current player?  

As a keen follower of cricket history, I despise unfairly derogatory statements about past cricketers.  Let us take the example of the famous Indian spin quartet of the 1960s and 1970s.  Especially in the 1960s, before the arrival of a certain genius named Sunil Gavaskar (who debuted in 1971), Indian captains such as Mansur Ali Khan (aka ‘Tiger’ Pataudi) rarely had the luxury of the team posting tall scores that bowlers could fall back on.  Nor did they have many fast-bowling options.  By all accounts, pitches in India were not dustbowls that were doctored to give a huge advantage to the spinners. 

 

The spin quartet possessed a diverse set of skills, encompassing the artistry of Bishan Bedi, the unpredictable genius of BS Chandrasekhar, the guile of EAS Prasanna and the dogged persistence of S Venkataraghavan.  They had their highs and lows as most sportspersons do, yet bonded as a group that won India matches at a time when victories, especially abroad, were a rarity in Indian cricket.  The two right arm off-spinners Prasanna and Venkat mostly vied for one spot in the team. (The four of them played together as a quartet in only one Test.) Prasanna was more successful under the aggressive, adventurous Pataudi while Venkat flourished under the more conservative Ajit Wadekar.  They played at a time when money in the game was meagre and resources (be it for fitness training or cricket equipment) were barebones.  They had regular jobs that were their primary source of income, while cricket was played for the love of the game and the pride of representing one’s country.  They did it with distinction.  And they deserve approbation for what they achieved, not unwarranted comparisons to modern day spinners.

The levels to which some cricket ‘fans’ stoop are matched by some who claim to be movie buffs.  The issue is slightly trickier in the realm of cinema because works of art created in past eras are available for viewing today.  It is not unfair to say that some films, which may have been acclaimed critically during the time of their original release, have not aged well.  Not everyone sets out to make a film that stands the test of time.  And when it comes to the content of those films, discerning critics rightfully call out issues that are problematic when seen now.  And that is totally okay.  A “Thevar Magan” might be regarded by some (including yours truly) as one of the greatest films committed to screen.  While others might find parts of the film to be glorifying members of a certain caste and reinforcing caste-based hierarchies.  A healthy debate around art of the past is almost an essential ingredient of an artform’s evolution. 

 

Where things turn unhealthy and unsavory is when people completely divorce a work of art from the time during which it was made and completely dismiss the film and the filmmaker.  Take for instance, playwright and filmmaker Visu.  Sure, his films hardly boasted the kind of cinematic virtues that present day audiences, who have gotten exposure to world cinema, have come to expect in films.  Visu stuck to his style of making family dramas and did not really evolve significantly as a filmmaker.  But he was a force to reckon with in his heyday.  The dialogues of some of his films packed the kind of power that is rarely seen today.  So, in my book, to say that many of Visu’s films haven’t quite aged well is acceptable.  But what is wholly unacceptable is to just dismiss or mock him without giving due credit to what he achieved in his lifetime.

 

One other pitfall of not meaningfully engaging with doyens (regardless of their fields of specialization) is that we make ourselves bereft of the experiences and perspectives that they could share.  I remember a director mentioning how modern-day filmmakers would do themselves a service by engaging veterans like K Bhagyaraj in story discussions.  There is a tendency to dismiss yesteryear filmmakers as ‘outdated.’  While they may have their own imperfections or blind spots, they also built a wealth of experiences over the course of their illustrious careers.  A wise filmmaker would engage with veterans, tap into their experiences and distill it through their own vision of the cinema that they wish to create.  Tapping into the past is not the same as taking a backward step.  

 

In cricket too, we hear stories such as how Harmanpreet Kaur benefitted from the timely advice of Sachin Tendulkar before the women’s World Cup final.  I remember a story of how in 1987 when Pakistan faced India on a minefield of a pitch in Bangalore, the Pakistan spinners went to Bishan Bedi for advice on how to bowl in the last innings.  Apparently, Bedi told them that on a turning pitch, it is the straight ball that is most dangerous.  They followed his advice and bowled Pakistan to victory.  Why the Indian spinners never approached Bedi or any of the other member of the spin quartet for advice, is also a question worth asking.  That was nearly 40 years ago.  Now, in 2026, we are in a time when the cash-rich Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI) has resources aplenty to set up formal mechanisms where former players can meaningfully engage with current players through proper channels, not just relying on stray, one-off bits of advice.

 

A common refrain is that we must not view history through rose-tinted glasses.  Equally important is to not look at it through distorted lenses.  We do not have to be stuck in the past.  We can respect evolution without mocking or tarnishing all the historical building blocks that paved the way for the present the way we know it.  Ignoring historical accuracy in any walk of life that we claim to be passionate about is akin to claiming to love someone without having an accurate picture of their childhood.  If mockery of the past is disrespectful, distortion of history is dangerous.  Self-serving politicians, for instance, may do it for their own benefit.  But it behooves us to utilize the user-friendly tools that technology has gifted us, to sift out the real truth from the twisted versions of it.  The need of the hour is corrective lenses.  Lenses that are neither rose-tinted nor besmirched with the tints of negativity and disrespect.  The corrective lenses would enable a thoughtful reflection of the past, sans the glare of media distortions, whilst preventing us from being myopic about the choices we make.  Because let us face it.  In this age of information, there are no acceptable excuses for skewed vision.

Zooming In: A few learnings from two Masters

I saw the man from a distance, from the stands of the Gachibowli Stadium in Hyderabad.  The natural lenses that I was born with were not enough.  The glasses that I was wearing to sharpen my vision did not suffice either.  The zoom feature on my phone must have silently pleaded with me, as if to say, “Stop, please.  If you tax me further, I will collapse.”  Beyond a point, I had to satisfice with the moving images of him that were being flashed on the big screen in the stadium.  Even if the pictures that I captured were grainy, what was devoid of haze was the raw emotion that I felt listening to his music, live.  But after spending three hours at the concert losing myself in the wonderful mix of soulful and peppy numbers that he, his singers and his orchestra performed, I felt this strong urge to write.  But not about the music or its impact on me.  Instead, I felt that it had to be about what I learn from masters such as him on the pursuit of one’s passions, a journey replete with highs, lows, barriers and pitfalls.

I recently attended Ilayaraja’s (whom I shall refer to as Raja for the rest of this article) concert.  That night, while returning home, I happened to see a tweet on the former cricketing great, the late Bishen Singh Bedi.  The tweet reminded me of something that Bedi had mentioned on the “Breakfast with Champions” show.  He said that no matter what you pursue, you should have a bit of mad passion (“paagalpan” was the word he used) but just as important is that you feel a sense of “peace” in the journey.  

Raja is known for his blind passion for and dedication towards music.  His zest for learning was evident in the way he learned Carnatic music from TV Gopalakrishnan. (If I remember correctly, this was after he became a famous music director.)  Directors continue to wax eloquent on his famously early start to his day, his singular focus on music and all the long hours in his studio with lyricists, singers and his orchestra.  Over generations, his music has been meditative, uplifting or exhilarating, depending on where one wants his music to take them.  Such is the staggering variety.  But as much as I have enjoyed the fruits of his mad passion, I have wondered if he also achieved the second goal mentioned by Bedi – “peace.”

As a master of the background score, Raja has always been adroit in knowing where silence must exist as a punctuation amidst music, in order to accentuate an emotion.  But I do not know if Raja, the person, feels the same quiet within himself that allows him to find peace amidst all the noise of the film world.  As a celebrity, he has warts in his personality that he has never shied away from admitting.  In fact, in an interview (with Ashameera Aiyappan and Navein Darshan), he smilingly said, “All my idiosyncrasies and temper tantrums that you tolerate, that defines me.  I know that I make these mistakes, but I am unable to correct them.”  It was moment of acute self-awareness on his part, that always made me smile.  Whether he has achieved inner peace is something that only him and those who know him on a deeply personal level will know.  As an ardent devotee of his, I can only hope that he has achieved the same level of tranquility that his music gives me.

Not everyone of us might be a Raja or a Bedi in our chosen field.  But it does not matter.  There are things that I am passionate about, be it in my professional or personal life.  What I strive to learn from the likes of Raja or Bedi is to stick to my areas of passion with sincerity and devotion.  In a few carefully chosen areas, I do invest the time, thought and effort to continually evolve.  I generally avoid taking the easy way out.  I believe in the power of ‘grind.’  And yes, I do, at times, exhibit a sense of craziness that makes people smile.  But thanks to Bedi’s sagacious words, I do strive to find that inner peace too.  A key ingredient of that peace is to reflect on my efforts and the result of those efforts in an intrinsic manner, defining success on my own terms.  Yes, external validation is nice.  Sometimes necessary too (especially in a professional setting) since we do not exist in a vacuum.  But equally important is whether we can look in the mirror and say, “you did good, my friend.”

There is another anecdote from Bedi in that show that I have as a sort of feedback loop every time I let the scales of my mind tilt away from internal quiet towards external noise.  Bedi describes a lead singer wanting to start a religious concert after being fully prepared.  When someone suggests to him that they wait for more of a crowd to build, he responds, “If you sing for yourself, it is devotion.  If you sing for others, it is a performance.”  The line is nicer to read but harder to practice in this modern age of views, likes, retweets, shares and all other measures that dominate social media.     

To concretize what I have written above, let me share an example of an initiative where I shall let you decide for yourself if I was successful or not.  I had watched Rahul Ravindran’s, “The Girlfriend,” a supremely compelling tale of a girl's evolution over a series of life-altering events in her college.  Through my dear friend (the ever-supportive Subha Jayanagaraja ma’am), I was able to get in touch with the director for an interview.  He kindly agreed to giving me time post the OTT release of the film.  A few days ahead of my interview, he had put his 100-page screenplay of the film on social media.  I downloaded and printed it, making notations at several places where I wanted to understand the transformation from what existed on paper to what I saw on screen.  Rahul was an interviewer’s delight.  I had a lovely time interviewing him.  During the course of the conversation, after a discussion on one specific element of the film, he said, “You know, this is easily the deepest dive that I have done on the film.”  

Alas, when I put the recording out, it got very little traction on social media, be it the print or the audio version.  Those who had read or listened to it enjoyed it.  But I had believed that it would reach a wider audience.  It did not.  A younger version of me may have found it difficult to digest the end result of that initiative.  But as I have aged, I am more acutely aware of the devotion vs performance aspect highlighted by Bedi.  My passion for writing and film criticism meant that the nights spent watching snippets of “The Girlfriend” on my phone while scribbling points on the margins of the script (for the scene that was playing!) gave me a certain sense of fulfillment.  And that fulfillment propels me to write further.  Rahul’s words, of course, meant a lot to me because the film was his creation.  Had he not shared the generous compliment, I may have had even less external validation to feel good about.  The point is, what I could control, I did well.  Was this little passion project of mine a ‘success’?  You, the reader, can decide that!

Regardless of my areas of passion and expertise, I am who I am because of the Rajas and the Bedis of the world.  I am neither a musician nor a cricketer of any repute.  But through how they approach their own craft, I try to imbibe lessons that I can, in turn, apply to the things that I am passionate about.  In the process, I just realized that the Raja concert that started with my frantic attempts to zoom in on him, has eventually led to me zooming in on myself.

OMG: My journey with religion and spiritualism

I was not born a non-believer.  Not by a long shot. 

“Umaachi Kaapathu!”  Those were the first two words that I remember using as a child before any prayers or hymns were taught to me.  It translates into, “God, protect us.”  When I was getting out of my toddler years, I was taught a few prayers, which I would religiously (pun intended, I suppose!) chant every morning.  Most, if not all, of my close family members were – they still are – deeply religious and ritualistic people.  Accompanying them to temples and watching them perform rituals, at home or otherwise, one thing was abundantly clear to me.  They derived a deep sense of peace, protection, security, and serenity when they invoked a supreme power.  I remember sometimes when I accompanied my maternal grandmother to her favorite temple, she would be a picture of tranquility, even in a crowd. 

Up until I was 13, I had a kind of superficiality around prayer and religion which was probably par for the course for kids.  My visits to the temple seemed to coincide with the timing of exams!  The sweets and savories on festivals were made available only after certain rituals were finished.  It was always worth the wait (but I am not sure it was worth the weight, given my puppy fat).  But I do not think I had any strong feelings either way about a supreme power.  It was a harmlessly transactional relationship that I had with God.  I was quite a good student till I was in high school.  I was a healthy and happy child, raised in a safe and loving home.  There were no untimely life events that had any adverse impact on me.  All was fine and dandy until March 20, 1994.

On that day, my maternal grandpa died in a freak accident, aged 61.  I have written about him at length in other blog posts.  So, I shall not dwell on him here.  But his death certainly shook whatever little foundation that I had built around the almighty.  Suddenly tough questions started to pop up in my mind.  His death seemed completely unfair to me.  The emotional scars it left on my family, especially on my grandma, were extremely difficult to digest or comprehend at that age.  The most harrowing question that I had no answer to – I still don’t – was the following: why did the “Umaachi” who was supposed to “kaapathu” our family, let us down?  Since I didn’t quite verbalize them, nobody in my family knew what was really going on in my mind until much later.  I could, of course, see that his death did not have a negative impact on the theism of my family.  Their foundations had been much stronger and deeper to withstand this storm that shook mine.  Their belief arguably helped them deal with the devastation.

In my early twenties, I went through a phase when I said to myself that I would pray for others sincerely, even if not for me.  It was less altruistic than it sounds.  I had this simplistic theory that went, “God, please do good things for good people.  I am not going to pray for myself because I don't want to get mad at you if things don't turn out the way I want them to.”  For instance, when my mentor Dr Jim Jamison was first diagnosed with cancer, I used to go to the temple every week to pray for his health.  I used to derive a sense of satisfaction not only while executing the routine but also sharing with Dr Jamison that I was praying for his recovery fervently.  He would smile and thank me for my effort.  But again, the transactional element never left my worship.  It had just taken a different form. (Dr Jamison sadly died in 2014.) 

In the mid-2000s, I had spoken at length with a family member about wanting to do yoga.  This was because I had introspected enough to know that I would benefit from something that would slow down my mind and silence it, even if ephemerally.  Since he had been actively practicing a style of yoga for a while, he willingly shared information about it.  I took an introductory course subsequently.  And thankfully, yoga has become a part of my daily routine till date.  I am writing about yoga in this piece about belief and faith because meditation offered me a glimpse of what I truly needed – a tool that enables me to be meditative. 

A few years ago, a well-wisher of mine urged me to be take the time to find out what truly worked for me in the realm of spirituality and stick to it and find myself within a framework that suited me.  I realized that it takes tremendous amount of mental strength to be an atheist.  The conversation urged me to search for things that could give me strength amidst tough times.  I gradually began to realize that I truly felt liberated whenever I invested the time in things that brought me a sense of peace while dissociating with outcomes.  Yoga, for sure.  Watching films that are deep and deliberately paced tales of good people going through ups and downs yet finding a sense of closure at the end. (Yes, Rhythm, I am talking about you.)  Reading and writing non-fiction, since they give me a framework to organize, verbalize and sometimes even purge my thoughts on various topics.  Listening to soft, well-written music.  All of these help me find peace.  But above everything, the one constant calming influence in my life is people. 

With respect to people, I realized that my lived-in experiences mirror what Kamal Hassan describes in his film, Anbe Sivam.  At multiple instances in the film, if you remember, he says something to the effect of, “that goodness of heart – that is God.”  I am glad that the film exists.  Because the line helped me make sense of why it is that I think the world of the marvelous people who form my support system.  They help me achieve a sense of equanimity and help me build the inner strength that I need, during tough times.  And they help me experience a quiet sense of joy when good things happen.  And most importantly, they enable me to be an effective part of the support system for people who have afforded me the privilege. 

As much as I have been a non-believer for the past several years, I do respect the deep and genuine faith that believers have.  The devout believers that I have seen throughout my life, pray, not always with outcomes in mind.  My father, for instance, wrote 108 verses (in thamizh) that I had assumed was in praise of a particular deity.  But when I read it carefully, I realized that it was a supplication, not for material things, but for the enablement of high thinking and a search for lofty ideals.  The very first line goes, “agandhai azhipone poatri.”  It translates to, “Oh, the destroyer of self-pride.”  I have been listening to Punjabi kirtans lately.  And a particular hymn goes, “jhuthe maan kaha kare” which translates into, “why do you indulge in false pride?”  I was struck by the uncanny similarity between the two lines and how two supposedly devotional lines are actually about heightened self-realization.

I realized that for deeply pious people, sure, there may be rituals performed to, say, counter certain negative events, either predicted or encountered.  But a lot of time, they pray because prayer gives their mind the silence, the quiet, the peace amidst all the chaos that fate might hurl at them.  Their supreme confidence in a being above, gives them the power to keep themselves going, knowing that things will take a turn for the better.  They are the ones that are equally grateful and grounded when good things happen to them.  They feel a divine intervention when positive life events beckon.  It is just that, given how certain pivotal life events shaped my thinking, I can only admire their piety from an arm's length, co-existing peacefully, no more, no less.

A friend recently asked me what I experience when I visit temples along with believers.  My response was, “I am unmoved.”  Prayer does not work for me because I am unable to get out of a transactional mindset – old habits die hard, I suppose – when I see God take a ‘form’ in temples.  Meditation works for me because there is a sense of formlessness.  When there is not a visible concretization, say in the form of a deity, I am able to look inward and search for inner peace.  An inner peace that will enable me to find the best version of myself.  I am no longer in a transactional mindset.  I am able to let go.  I am able to be more accepting of the vagaries of fate, while I try to shape my life’s narrative focusing on what I can control.  Does all this mean that I have achieved perfect emotional balance?  Not by a long shot.  But I haven't stopped trying.