2017 has been a fantastic year. It has also been quite mystifying. Let’s rewind to a conversation that I had on
Jan 1 with my dear friend as I was bidding goodbye to him. I had had a memorable reunion with my group
of friends. My wife and child had been
unable to join me since we had other family visiting our place. As my friend and I hugged, he noticed that I was
feeling downbeat. It had been three
years since I had met the guys and the thought of another wait was making me
feel heavier than my weight suggested. He
said to me, “I know you are feeling low.
But remember that your family is waiting to receive you back home.”
In response, I smiled and said, “This
may sound simplistic, even a little sappy.
But that’s a different part of the heart!” Almost a year has passed by. And I still think of that line that I
uttered. What I didn’t realize on that
day was that this whirlwind of emotions was not a standalone entity; rather, it
was an usher to a deeper whirlpool that was sucking me in. Being a single child was something that I had
dismissed as a mere fact of life. Now it
was starting to be a sentiment. So, I
gave it its rightful space in my mind, not pretending to be oblivious to its
existence. By letting it simmer for a
while, I began to formulate some thoughts around it. After all, I had to learn to let thoughts
float as opposed to letting them sink me.
The first stream of thoughts that
I experienced was in a pool of wistfulness.
My friends are a wonderful set of people- warm, funny and generous. But as distances, familial priorities, work
commitments all vie for space, it is unreasonable, futile even, on my part to
dwell on times when distances were manageable and the feeling of being an integral
part of a friend’s life was a definite charge for me to lead my own life. The feeling that every dear friend is just a
call or a whatsapp message away is a reassuring
one. But as they say, sometimes what is
near might seem quite afar. When my
49-year-old Aunt passed away without much warning, my friends rallied around me
beautifully. It is lovely to have
someone chosen by you, not related by blood, be a core part of your life. It is yet another thing to be a part of
someone else’s life. And with their
constantly evolving set of priorities and responsibilities, I see it almost as my
own duty to be gracefully accepting of being more on the periphery of a loved
one’s expanded circle. But as a result,
that “part of the heart” feels emptier, yet paradoxically heavier.
The parallel torrent of emotions
that floods my mind is around the passing away of my Aunt in October 2016. A well-wisher in whom I confided recently
about the spate of these new feelings asked me to think in a more focused
manner about the death of my Aunt and its effects on me. I think about my Aunt a lot but not in this
context. Following my well-wisher’s
advice, I introspected a little more and realized that even though I had never
quite taken my Aunt for granted, her presence in my life had been more akin to
the sky than a rainbow. It was so constant,
so predictable, so unassuming that I hadn’t fully appreciated its value while
it lasted. The heavens had come crashing
down last October and had pierced through yet another “part of the heart.” But the fact that my Aunt had been a motherly
figure, a sister, a friend all rolled into one meant that her absence was now going
to make me swim alone in the sea of memories and the oceanic legacy that she
has left behind.
Alas, there is
a nuanced yet discernible difference between feeling ‘alone’ and feeling ‘lonely.’ I tell myself that to experience fleeting,
disquieting thoughts might be okay as long as I learn to deal with them. Acceptance and empathy are trustworthy
lifeguards. And above all, I tell myself
that the very reason I am able to stay afloat is due to the buoyancy gifted by
my loved ones.
In a recent interaction between
film critic Baradwaj Rangan and producer G Dhananjayan, the two of them
discussed the dearth of true ‘directors’ in Thamizh cinema. Directors that could take something on paper
and use all the cinematic tools at their disposal to stage -- “staging” is a
term that Rangan often uses in this context -- a scene in a manner that is
befitting the audiovisual medium of cinema.
During the course of that conversation, Rangan mentioned that directors
of the 1960s and 70s like Bhimsingh made entertaining films but that those
would not really fit the definition of pure ‘cinema.’ If he had gone on talk about the 80s, I have
little doubt that he would have mentioned Visu in the same breath.
The way I see it, filmmakers were
mostly products of their system. Belonging
to an entertainment culture that had strong roots in theatre, it was not rare
for directors and producers in the 60s through the late 70s to adapt stage
plays. Several of K Balachander’s films
were adaptations of his plays – Edhir
Neechal was probably the most famous instance. But KB gradually took to the ‘visual’
component of the audio visual medium.
His landscapes too changed and he skillfully utilized the settings
(sometimes in an overt way, no doubt) to help tell a story. Two examples that spring to mind are the
waterfalls in Achamillai Achamillai
and the boulder in Oru Veedu Iru Vaasal. KB also had a tremendous ear for music and
was a master at situational songs. This
was another element that helped him in his quest to embrace the tools that
cinema afforded him.
In the early 80s, KB took Visu
under his wing and had the latter script films that he produced, like Netrikann, Mazhalai Pattalam and Thillu
Mullu (a remake of Gol Maal). At this time, directors like ‘Muktha’
Srinivasan (Shimla Special) and SP
Muthuraman (Kudumbam Oru Kadhambam)
directed movies that were written by Visu.
Very swiftly, Visu became an actor-writer-director with Manal Kayiru in 1982. (The lack of real cinematic polish in a Kudumbam… when compared to a Manal Kayiru makes me think that even if
Visu had continued as a writer alone, his films would have still come across as
photographed plays, owing to paucity of pure ‘directors,’ the ones that Rangan
alludes to.)
Starting in 1982 up until the mid-90s,
Visu evolved into a prolific filmmaker but unlike KB, he never quite let go of his theatrical staging ways. He was extremely popular among the middle
class movie watching folk in an era where TV viewing was restricted to
Doordarshan! Since the serial-watching
audiences of today once went to the theatres, he had a built-in audience. It is more accurate to state that he earned that audience. He told their stories. As dramatic as the movies may have been and
as simplistic as some of the resolutions to the knots were, his target
audiences lapped up his offerings gleefully.
He very rarely resorted to the kind of crude, contrived villainy and
caricatures that was seen in the masala films of the day and even the
ghastfully written TV dramas of today, to move his stories forward. Quite a few of his films did not work for me
– the characters in his lesser efforts seemed to be mere one-note mouthpieces
for the themes that he wanted to flesh out.
But let me take the apogee of his career, Samsaram Adhu Minsaaram, to elaborate on what aspects of his brand
of films still hold appeal to me.
Samsaram… is an honest account of the trials and tribulations of a
middle class family. Some are seemingly
stock characters but notice closely and you will see that they have shades that
reflect the depth of the writing. The
brother played by Chandrasekar is a case in point. He is an obedient son, obedient to the point
that he resists from talking to Lakshmi (his sister-in-law) following the
showdown between his father (Visu) and brother (Raghuvaran). He has an element of male chauvinism
too. He forces his wife (an educated
woman) to tutor his brother, who is not exactly the brightest bulb in the
room. When she speaks to him openly
about the lack of intimacy between the two of them, he chides her rather
crudely. But later, when she is down
with chicken pox, he tends to her lovingly.
Now, one could argue that he is trying hard to balance his affections
for the different members of the family.
But he is no saint. And the way
he talks to his wife (on the road, after she has walked out on him) is truly
despicable. It is only when Lakshmi
knocks some sense into him does he realize the error of his ways. The character arc is superbly done. Even though he is not ‘allowed’ to talk to
Lakshmi, he listens to her well-meaning advice.
Their interaction in the climax is a poignant little segment. And the way Lakshmi says, “Neenga kooda enna yaemathiteenga Thambi”
is deeply moving. The Chandrasekar
character fits in beautifully into the core theme of the film. Vairamuthu’s lines illustrate this at
markedly different points - the “minsaaram” that is “samsaram” can provide as
much light as it can lead to acute shocks.
Another reason why I prefer Samsaram… (and Kudumbam Oru Kadhambam) over all his other films was that Visu was
not the main protagonist. By being one
among several characters, I actually felt he liberated the writer in him to
move the story through narrative arcs rather than preachy dialogues. This movie is an actor’s showcase for Lakshmi
and she delivers one of the great performances of her checkered career. Known mostly for an overemphatic acting
style, when the writing was in top gear (Sila
NerangaLil Sila ManidhargaL, for instance), Lakshmi’s performances could be
equally arresting. In Samsaram… she plays the role at just the
right pitch, elevating Visu’s writing considerably. She is especially wonderful in the climax
where she conveys the pain of being alienated for no fault of hers. Where Visu’s films sometimes don’t work for
me is when resolutions to sensitive issues are simplistic and convenient. But here, the actions of the Lakshmi
character convey myriad messy emotions without neatly wrapping up
everything. As a result, despite the
theatrical manner of staging, the drama itself comes across as
lifelike.
No write-up on Visu will be complete
without a mention of his dialogues.
Famous for his long-winded alliterative, repetitive style of dialogues,
Visu was equally a master of the pithy line.
Sample these from Samsaram… -
“Rendu vishyathula kaNakku paaka
koodathu…Appa Amma-vukku podra soaru…Akka thangaiku seiyyara seeru.” Another gem from the climax – “Kootu Kudumbam-ngaradhu oru nalla poo madhiri...adha kasakittom...apram moondhu paaka koodathu.”
When viewed today, these scenes do look and sound dated to most
people. But I find these sharp lines
redolent of an era where a strong script was a sturdy pillar that held a movie
aloft. (It is nice to see that in 2017, there has been an enviable mix of style and substance in movies like Maanagaram.)
Yes, Visu’s films
lacked cinematic finesse. His roots in
theater were the charge (“minsaaram”) that short circuited his wholehearted adoption of the
visual medium. But it is these same
roots that ensured that the best of his scripts had a spark that was
uniquely his. And for that, I feel a strong need to give him his due.
It was a balmy spring
morning. So balmy that one would have
excused the daffodils in case they chose to sleep in and miss their turn to
bloom. My mother was driving to the
temple on the interstate at a speed that was a tad above the speed limit but
not fast enough to interest the nearby cops.
Meanwhile on a perpendicular road, another driver decided that the
traffic rules did not apply to her and chose to drive right past a stop
sign…into my mom’s car. My mom, the
cops, the daffodils and most importantly, the airbag were all shaken out of
their idyll. I was in Pittsburgh,
working on a group project with my classmates when dad called. My reaction, once I got to know that mom had
escaped with some bruises, was, “Why did she meet with an accident when she was
going to, of all places, the temple?”
Dad’s reaction was just a little different – you know the minute
difference between chalk and cheese? He said, “Just be happy that she was driving to the temple. It was God that saved her.”
A few thousand miles away, a man in his early 30s had not heard great news from his sister's doctor. Actually, the doctor herself was not
great news – she was a fraudster who sadly did not find other professions to
swindle people out of their hard earned money.
So, for the next few years, they had to suffer from the
effects of needless surgeries and their related side effects. The man, a nonbeliever, spent countless
hours gleaning relevant research materials to identify the best course of
treatment, giving short shrift to his own career. They then happened upon a doctor who, thanks
to his skill and kind-heartedness, scripted a heartwarming end to a rather dark
chapter in their life -- the sister recovered fully and the brother revitalized his career. And what
happened to the charlatan? Nothing
untoward as far as I know (but that really is beside the point).
My parents are equal opportunity
believers. Of the plethora of Hindu Gods,
they have never shied away from worshipping any deity. In essence, they have never fenced themselves
within the confines of our subsect of Hinduism.
In the late 90s, my Dad experienced an inexplicable but definite affinity
towards Lord Muruga. He started worshipping
Muruga with the kind of passion and vigor that seemed strong even for his
standards. One night, he started writing
a supplicatory poem on Muruga. But here
is the thing. There was nothing in the
poem for him. He did not pray for
himself or ‘ask’ for anything in particular.
The verses were strongly rooted in values. Sample the first two lines – Aganthai Azhiponey Poatri, Aganthooimai
ALiponey Poatri… It roughly
translates into a plea to remove all traces of arrogance and bless people with purity of heart.
To me, these people that I have
mentioned above represent the best of either ends of the theism spectrum. They are very clear about their anchors. Whenever turbulence strikes their life in any
way, shape or form, they know when and how to drop anchor. Their anchors are sturdy, unwavering and help
them weather many a storm. One anchor
might be carved out of rational thought, the other out of religious beliefs. But they contribute largely to the steeliness
of their owners. I also find it
enormously touching that they use the anchors to lend solid support to their
close relationships. I recently read a quote by author Anna
Quindlen that “grief is a whisper in the world and a clamor within.” I have been witness to these people utilizing
what is best known to them to acknowledge and act upon their loved ones’ needs. In essence, their authentic reactions, as different as they may be from one another, are musical notes played lovingly to gently silence the painful internal "clamor." If in one case the instrument is passionate
prayers, in another case is deep thoughtfulness. Both have a rightful place in this world
because, after all, they are utilized in service of the most noble value of all
– selflessness.
“Why did they have to wait 23
years to send this?” That was my instantaneous
reaction when my grandma told me that my grandpa’s best friend’s nephew had sent
her a clip from a home video that featured my grandpa, who had passed away in
1994. We did not own a camcorder when he
was alive so, in essence, it had been 23 years since I had heard his
voice. It felt surreal, to see this
clip. His square, black glasses, the
neatly ironed dhoti, that thicker-than-good-filter-coffee Brahmin accent and
the faster-than-Usain-Bolt manner of speaking.
It was all there. Of course, I knew
that this rush of emotion was going to be fleeting. But as with the many wondrous surprises of
life, I wanted to zone in on that. I
wanted to zoom in ever so slightly, ever so carefully into this handful of
moving images and drink in that happiness that I was experiencing. A strange feeling occurred then - I felt a
little vulnerable. Suddenly, that
well-meaning but hard-nosed friend called reality woke me up and said, “Get
over it. He is gone.”
Right, he was gone. No one is denying that. But at the moment, I did not want to deny
myself my vulnerability. I did not feel
the need to yank myself out of the mixed feelings evoked by that video. I once read in a Time magazine snippet that
taking pictures during vacations do not really distract us from experiencing
the moment; rather, they help us encapsulate the joy of being at a particular
place and make us want to transport all our positive emotions into a
frame. (Of course, if the purpose of
taking the snap is vanity of any kind, that is different.) Similarly, I was recording in my mind the
myriad emotions that I was going through after watching the video. All of the emotions deserved their
place.
I felt the need to share my
vulnerability with people that I picked from my near and dear. The prompt reactions from two people in
particular were wonderful to see and hear.
One said that she was happy for me that I had seen this, that it
was a perfect ‘gift’ for me for having written the “In Pursuit of Meaning”
write-up, which I published on the blog that day. Another reaction was from a
dear friend who said that he experienced similar emotions when someone dug up a
video clip of his grandpa, who had
passed away recently. Kindred spirits
and empathy – these are beautiful things.
The fact that it taken has taken me a month after watching the video to
write this was because I am over that vulnerability now. Making these feelings public does not seem to
be a big deal now. But on that day,
when I was feeling a certain way, trusting a few people with my emotions and
having that trust vindicated by some genuinely sweet reactions felt nice. But there is corollary to this. When it comes to expressing vulnerability,
you have to choose, you have to guard.
Why?
The reason is simple. It is utterly unreasonable for one to expect
everyone else to be sensitive and empathetic to every little thing that crosses
your mind. To counter that, one has to keep in mind Sheena Iyengar’s magnificently
eloquent words, “Be choosy about choosing and you will choose well.” By identifying a few core values or things
that you are sensitive about, you free yourself to even have jokes cracked
about other things. If you communicate
it clearly, most people will understand that apart from a few topics, that you
are a good sport and that you are not touchy about everything under the
sun. But by the same token, if you are
sensitive about something, it behooves you
to guard that like a precious jewel in a locker.
By trusting the few people that I knew would react sensitively to my
emotions around my grandpa’s video and by not sharing it with all and sundry at
that time, I was guarding myself and my emotions. But have I always done that? I wish!
My writing is something that I
hold very dear to me. I do not have
illusions of being a great writer or a perfect one. But it is something that I relish greatly. I used to share links to my write-ups with a
much wider set of people than I do now.
A few people used to take great pleasure in needling me and making fun
of the fact that I felt the need to share links to my write-ups even when they
were not interested in reading them. I
even tried hard to explain that certain write-ups were on topics close to me
but no amount of explaining made an iota of difference. Fair enough.
So, I stopped sending them the links.
After all, if they were interested, they would take the effort to read
my blog. Maybe the links were an
annoyance so, why bother them. As simple
as differential equations! But after I
had stopped sending out the links, when in a group setting, one of these people
interrupted a conversation that I was having with someone else (who likes my
writing) and made an insulting remark.
It was intended to be a joke. But
as much of a sport that I can be for many things, this was not something that I
wanted to let pass. So, I politely
turned and remarked that I was talking to someone that was genuinely
interested, who actually wanted to talk to me. The conversation ended there without anyone feeling hurt.
At the other end of the spectrum was a well-wisher that respected my
skills but wanted to offer me some constructive criticism. She told me that she had equivocated because
she knew how passionate I was about writing.
But I told her that I was actually overjoyed to receive feedback,
because she had earned my trust. I
assured her that as much as I enjoy writing, what I enjoy even more are meaningful
suggestions to help me write better and thereby derive even greater pleasure out of it.
While in the earlier instance, I
was able to politely let the interrupting person know what I felt and continue
to have a healthy relationship, there have been other instances where I have
distanced myself from a person or a group because I either felt that I was
being taken for granted or I had made the mistake of trusting someone with my
vulnerabilities, naively and prematurely.
Since I have become increasingly non-confrontational by nature, I resort
to just moving away. But what I have
realized over time is that vulnerabilities can be the cause for separation but
they can also be, in a delightfully sweet manner, the reason for intimacy.
It is one thing to share your
vulnerability with a close one. It is
yet another, more fulfilling, aspect of relationships that you end up becoming
closer to someone because you appreciated their thoughtful response to you sharing
something personal. I have fortunately been
blessed with both types of relationships.
Especially the latter kind also makes people want to share their own
sensitivities that are dear to them. Of
course, I am no saint and I have, on occasion, been insensitive to people
during times when a little more understanding on my part would been a lot
more apropos. But I have, over time, tried to learn
and love my loved ones deeply, unconditionally, non-judgmentally. After all, the common ground that is fostered
by sharing is a fertile one for the growth of a relationship since it is sowed
with the seeds of trust, empathy and unconditional affection.
Thoughts and memories about Aaha, a comedy drama directed by Suresh Krissna, that was released on Oct 30, 1997. These are not listed in any particular order. At the end of the write-up, I have embedded
the youtube video of the movie, marking the scenes that I have referenced.
On the eve of Diwali in 1997, I stumbled upon some
pre-release promotions on TV. KT
Kunjumon’s big budget disaster Ratchagan
was one among them. Amidst these
releases was a small movie with a big heart.
At least, that is what the promos, which included the 10,000-wala scene, promised. That surely was what the movie
delivered. Aaha ensured that I was going to have a cracker of a Diwali! I watched the movie at the Anna Theatre
twice. Once with my family and the
second time with my friends. Some
memories have to be co-created. Aaha was certainly one. Years later, a bunch of my friends, including
some of their family, took a day train to Bangalore to attend the wedding reception
of one of our gang members. En route, one
of us started spouting dialogues from the movie. My friend’s sister started recounting some of
her favorite lines. Even another friend’s
Dad, who was reticent by nature, joined the fun, much to our surprise. The conversation made the rather uncomfortable
seats on the train painless. Is this
what is called a ‘feel’ good movie?!
I have always reckoned that Aaha is ‘Crazy’ Mohan’s best work as a
dialogue writer. Some of his
collaborations with Kamal Hassan have probably resulted in even bigger
laughs. I think I know why. The other movies made me laugh, yes. But Aaha
is the movie that makes me smile. It is
not a nuance. There is a world of
difference. This movie was sweet but not
syrupy. Every smile is well-earned. Every tear is worth shedding. And the dialogues play no small part in this
respect.
The scene that takes the Well-earned
Smile award, among many tough contenders, is the Antakshari sequence. Each actor gets a song that is totally
in line with their character and their age. Banupriya’s graceful dance movements for “Ottagatha
Kattiko,” Srividya’s “Maraindhu Irundhu Paarkum…,” the Paati’s “Delhi-ku raja”
all are memorable in their own way. There
is a bit of amateurishness in the dancing which makes the sequence all the more
endearing and lifelike. Of course, the
moment that takes the cake, the icing and the candles for the best ear-to-ear
grin is Banupriya singing, “Azhagiya Raghuvaraney!” His reaction is even more priceless.
Honorable Contender for the Smile award goes to the Gokulashtami
sequence. Several funny lines mark this
scene. But what makes this truly special
is how the family members interact with one another. They laugh at each other’s jokes (note
Banupriya’s cute reaction to Rajiv Krishna’s “aruvadhavadhu kalyanam” joke) and pass on the savories casually. The staging is as well-done as the writing,
which seamlessly transitions into serious drama with the Vijaykumar-Delhi
Ganesh argument. (The late Ananthu co-wrote the screenplay with Suresh Krissna.)
Beyond the smiles, there are, of course, some big laughs in Aaha.
Famous for his imaginative, witty puns, Mohan’s writing is in top gear
here. Be it the “pul tharai…puliyotharai” comment, the “bar attached, nee detached” remark or the hilarious “thayir vadai” joke, the laughs are fast
and frenetic. But the biggest laughs
come in…of all scenes, a death scene.
The exchange that the Thatha has with Delhi Ganesh has so many laughs
that the ink in Mohan’s pen probably had a tough time keeping pace with his flow
of thoughts!
Raghuvaran turned in one of his great performances in this
movie. Mature and measured, his
character is superbly etched. He rises to the occasion. And for a tall man, he stands even taller in the climax
sequence where he and the equally marvelous Banupriya vie for acting honors. They both deliver crisp monologues that are rendered
with modulations of voice that are sublimely effective. Notice the way Raghuvaran says, “She is no
more, Pa.” The choking of his voice is
understated and works just for that reason.
Banupriya is a little more demonstrative but in keeping with her character,
the way she says, “Enaku idhayame illa-nu
nenachutteLe, idhu nyayama” is, in equal measure childlike and deeply
affecting.
It takes acting and writing of
tremendous skill to make a comic sequence work after all the dramatic highs
achieved in these monologues. But that
magic happens at the very end of the movie, that gets a fitting finish, courtesy of Delhi Ganesh. His “gul gul jil jil mal mal” joke leads to a
big laugh that makes you wipe your tears away.
But here’s the thing. Both the
laughs and the tears seem absolutely genuine, neither out of place despite one
following another.
Thanks to the stars lining up (or rather, subtitlist Rekhs lining them for me!), I managed to interview
director Suresh Krissna last year. I have written about my interview in this blog.
He probably smiled at the end of the interview at the thought that I was
probably the only person to not ask him a single question about Baasha and had the bulk of the conversation
focused on the making of Aaha and his
friendship with the late Raghuvaran.
Click here for the interview. Thank
you, once again, SK Sir for your kindness of thought and gesture. (The stars lined up in another way too. I am married to 'Crazy' Mohan's niece!)
Aaha is probably
the only Tamil movie known to me that has a cast of brahmin characters that are
neither caricatures nor employed to make any statement about casteism or
religious beliefs. Even classics such as
Sethu and Vedham Pudhidhu which featured brahmin characters at their core and
treated them mostly with respect and dignity, did not shy away from utilizing
stereotypes to suit their needs. If the
heroine in Sethu is the typical
docile girl used as contrast to the rugged hero, there are several
characters in Vedham Pudhidhu with exaggerated
accents and narrow-minded attitudes. Of course, a writer is not obliged to showcase the people of a particular community as
angels. But I am merely making the observation that the characters in these two
well-made movies belonged to this community for very specific plot-based reasons. But sometimes, to not touch upon something
overtly is a statement in itself. Aaha, by never quite dwelling on the fact
that the characters were brahmins, actually gives a reason to cheer for this
community. They are portrayed as three-dimensional characters, with their virtues and foibles, no more, no less.
Speaking
of Raghuvaran, it is a pity that he died young.
It is a testament to his acting skill that even though I didn’t know him
personally, I find it hard to watch the climax now. His character is assumed to be dead but returns
miraculously. Too sad that miracles are
restricted to the screen. (Click to read
my post titled, “Remembering Raghuvaran.”)
One of the smaller joys of Aaha is the importance given to even the minor characters in the ensemble
cast. The Thatha, Paati and Kavithalaya Krishnan – he plays a
driver, who is treated as an extended member of the family -- all have their
moments. I found it especially sweet that
Krishnan’s character was a part of the Aavani
Avattam rituals performed by the family.
There is no fuss made about or prominence given to his inclusion, which
makes us smile at the kindhearted generosity of the family.
There are two physically challenged characters in Aaha, one played by the grandpa who is hard
of hearing. (And the other is the kid
sister who uses a crutch to walk.) Even
though the Thatha’s hearing is the butt of several funny jokes, there is
something about these actors delivering the lines that ensure that the jokes don’t
come across as mean-spirited. In a touching
moment, the grandpa is the only one in the wedding scene who notices that
something has gone awry. His lines to
Rajiv Krishna are unforgettable. And it
is only fair that the movie that starts off by introducing him as the “senior
citizen” of the house, ends with a funny joke focused on him!
Happy Birthday, Aaha! You are one of a kind! Movies like you are hard to find!
Time points for the
scenes (in the video link below):
A cracker of a Diwali -- 10:45 min point
“There must be some reason for everything!” -- 34:20
All-inclusive Aavani Avattam! -- 1:06:24
Ananthachari…err, Anthakshari -- 1:13:25
Gokulashtami at Gurukripa -- 1:22:15
The dying patient wants to live longer -- 2:15:24
The Thatha's touching lines -- 2:23:18
The memorable monologues by Raghuvaran and Banupriya -- 2:35:52
470 milliliters. That was the quantity of blood drawn from
my body during a drive conducted at the local church.
3 liters. That was the amount of blood that my Aunt lost in
the days leading up to her death this time last year.
As the days of the calendar trudged through the end of September,
several disconnected thoughts traipsed through my mind. I wanted to do
something ‘meaningful’ on her death anniversary. Donating blood in the
honor of someone dear who had died of hematologic complications – that was, to
me, a token of remembrance that would have made her smile. But after my
blood was drawn and the bandage was applied, I asked myself whether I had done
enough. The more complicated question was, how exactly would I define
‘enough?’
I work in the oncology group of a pharmaceutical company. I
have seen videos of metastatic patients – in layman’s terms, patients whose
cancer has spread to different parts of their body. I have wondered
if these patients tried to encapsulate their entire lives’ memories, regrets
and wishes all into a show reel. Do they, especially the ones that are on
the younger side, experience a sense of desperation? How do they see their tradeoffs -- work in favor of family or family in favor of
friends? These decisions that they had perceived as the ingredients of a
balanced life – do these choices, in retrospect, seem to have resulted in
pyrrhic victories? Or, do they have a satisfied sigh that they had
balanced, with the grace of a ballet dancer and the skill of a tightrope
walker, the components of their core? That they had dealt with the
surprises of life with equanimity that prepared them for their toughest
physical and psychological battle.
Apart from truly old people at the end of their lives, I don’t
think many, with the exception of terminally ill patients, would have the
‘luxury’ of an extended introspection, with the finiteness of their lives an
immediate reality, not a fact of life. By the same token, it is these
patients that face a tough battle if they start taking sojourns in the dark
recesses of their mind. If they start assessing their life as one that
has not been well-lived, it would be akin to an architect looking at his magnum
opus and wanting to demolish it in a day and build it from scratch in a
week.
They live on...
The four people whose photographs are a part of my prayer room are
my maternal and paternal grandfathers, my grandpa’s brother and my Aunt.
One was 84 and died while in good health, with minimal suffering. One was
67 when he stepped out of his house, experienced a massive cardiac
arrest. One was 61 when he was involved in a freak car accident, while
living for less than an hour in the realization that his end was nigh.
And my Aunt was 49 and was unconscious in the hospital for a week before
passing away. She probably did not know that she, despite her health
complications, was going to leave this world. None of these people had
the experience of a patient with a terminal condition who knew roughly how long their final lap
was. But I am certain that all four of them passed away with barely any
regrets. Their lives, some short, others longer, were well lived and
they were well loved. It was because they loved well. Their
love for their family and friends was as unconditional as it was
comforting. They had the grace to acknowledge their foibles, took life
seriously but not so seriously that they did not have their share of
laughs. Their innate generosity meant that they gave more than they
took. In essence, in their own authentic ways, they had done enough by
the time fate intervened and decided that their time was up.
I suppose I have my answer there. Donating blood in my
Aunt’s memory is not going to be ‘enough’ per se. But it is the
equivalent of a brick, not an architectural marvel. It is a series of
these little bricks that will help me construct a sturdy monument, a structure
that despite when my end comes, be it 49 or 84, is a creation that I would look
at with a sense of accomplishment. In essence, the pursuit of
meaning is rendered redundant when the journey is comprised of bits of the
actual goal.
***
10/20/17 Update -- I came in second in this week's popular vote. There was no editor's pick but I was happy to be cited in the week's round-up. See excerpt below as well as the link:
“One way to keep the reader’s attention is to have a strong central theme, object, or phrase to tie your essay to. If you can signal this theme in your title, it’s even better – like the repetition of sounds and letters in this poem, it will create moments that stick in your reader’s head without you having to be obvious about HEY THIS IS MY THEME WORD. Ram did it this week with numbers, but you can use whatever works for your idea.”
Disclaimer – This is not meant to be a comprehensive thesis. I just wanted to record a few thoughts on this
topic. Your inputs and
reactions are most welcome.
The characterization of Shalini (played by Amala Paul) in
the recently released Velaiyilla
Pattadhari-2 has drawn much flak. This is in part due to its director (Soundarya Rajinikanth) being a woman. But in all fairness, I think people,
especially women, may not have been enamored with the role even otherwise. Shalini, the adorable girlfriend from part-1,
is now a nagging homemaker. The dulcet
voice from the earlier movie has been replaced with a shrill. Dhanush, playing the husband, even breaks
into a mock sobbing bout when Kajol asks an innocuous question, “Are you
married?” We are supposed to understand
that he is henpecked! Dhanush’s writing,
which was quite a revelation in the Revathy-Raj Kiran portions of Power Paandi, exhibits nary a bit of
that delicacy here. The track is just
played for easy laughs. But probably
owing to Dhanush’s genial screen persona these days and its stark contrast to
the crudeness of some of his early day characters (like Thiruda Thirudi) I did not find the husband-wife interactions
particularly offensive.
Despite being the butt of her husband’s jokes, Shalini is
very much her own individual, who decides when to work and when not to. Living in the same house with her
father-in-law, husband and brother-in-law, she might be the one preparing food
(even in a makeshift kitchen on the terrace amidst floods) but she tells them
what to wear, what groceries to buy, etc.
I do not mean to make all of this sound like the signs of deep women
empowerment. But in the male dominated
world of Tamil cinema, I suppose that I feel the need to pick my battles. And VIP-2
didn’t feel like one worth losing sleep over.
Even in the climactic portion, Dhanush’s words to Kajol about the equality
of men and women did not sound condescending to me.
Rather, it felt quite genuine. One
could argue that in this day and age, even such a line is redundant. But show me one modern day Tamil hero worth
his salt that gives you the vibe that the heroine is on equal footing with them. After watching the concluding portions of VIP-2, I was actually left with quite a
pleasant feeling that even the seemingly villainous Kajol character was not
shown as being ‘tamed.’ Instead, there
was a bonding that happened in the most unexpected fashion. Whether the writing of this segment was solid
is a moot point but it felt like the writer’s heart was in the right place.
As I reflected on the portrayals of women that have
impressed me over the years, it was hard to shake off a rather strong feeling. And that was that anything that I deemed better
than the status quo of the day had impressed me sufficiently that I did tend to give the
filmmakers brownie points for at least striving to make something different,
something more mature. My oft-repeated
example is Rhythm and movies of that
ilk like Keladi Kanmani, Sigaram,
etc. I have been enormously impressed by
the decency that is exhibited towards the women in these movies. The women are portrayed as strong-willed
individuals, with myriad shades, warts and all.
The characters are treated with immense dignity by the hero (by
extension, the filmmaker, I feel). But
the one fault that is laid at the feet of directors like Vasanth is that the remarrying
heroine is a virgin. While I am not
going to debate that, my own reaction to these movies has been largely positive
just because I don’t get to see such cultured interactions in the average Tamil
movie where the hero is deified and the heroine is objectified. Of course, Tamil cinema has moved to an era
where filmmakers like Gautham Menon have pushed boundaries, in the right direction I might add. To me, the Ajith-Trisha interactions were
easily the highlight of Yennai Arindhal. The fact that Trisha had a child was exquisitely
handled. (“Isha unakulla irundhu vandhava” was a particularly poignant line.) In essence, respect shown to women in the
movies should not come as a surprise to us.
It should be a given. But until
that happens in a movie industry that is, with reason, accused of glorifying
stalking and reducing women to objects of male fantasies, let me savor the rare maturely handled movie, with all its virtues
and flaws.
Having grown up on a staple diet of Mani Ratnam movies, I
thought of how the typical Ratnam heroine has rarely, if ever, been a
pushover. Even a Meera Jasmine who is
treated like dirt at several places by the Madhavan character in Aaytha Ezhuthu, has nerves of
steel. She is the most fascinating
character in that movie. She continually
forgives Madhavan for his impulsiveness and his explosive temper. But when, in her estimation, he crosses the
line of conscientiousness, she gets an abortion done without telling him. Whatever one’s opinion of that decision may
be, it is hard to refute the fact that she is not a one-note character. Where Madhavan explodes, she implodes. While he might have a short fuse, her anger may
be more measured but is every bit as intense as his. All this is to say that when I sense that
effort has been put into writing a well-rounded character for an actress, I walk
away not only impressed but also a tad relieved. That relief comes from the fact that human
dramas will rarely seem balanced and realistic if only the male character comes
across as well-written.
Whenever films like Magalir
Mattum and Valla Desam (both
unseen by me) with a female lead get released, there is always cause for cheer
just by virtue of their difference from the norm. As part of the promotions for these
movies, we invariably also hear mentions of the rarity of women
filmmakers. (For the record, both these films were directed by men.) It is a perfectly valid
lament. For commercial considerations, an
aversion to risk, the fear of being crushed by the male star juggernaut, an
inherent male chauvinism or just plain ignorance, the majority of movies made by male
directors do leave little for women to do.
Filmmakers like Karthik Subburaj (Iraivi),
Seenu Ramasamy (Dharmadurai) and Ram
(Taramani) have all attempted to
showcase their heroines in varied shades.
Opinions have been polarized.
While a group of people (that I belong to) admire their guts to try
something different and even admire the outputs for the most part, there have
also been clarion calls for more sensitivity and depth (especially in the case
of Taramani). All these discussions remind me of how even a filmmaker of repute like Ratnam once
admitted to having certain blind spots as a guy. He cited the example of the second half of
Roja, which had a scene where Madhubala (whose husband has been kidnapped by
terrorists) is shown wearing bangles. Ratnam recounted a conversation with a female friend of his who told him that a
suffering woman would never have the motivation to wear bangles!
While it is a small screen teleseries, Suhasini’s Penn is one of the rare works of a female
filmmaker that shows us the kind of outputs that we will get with women at the
helm. Each of her characters, be it the
mother and daughter (so marvelously acted by Srividya and Revathy), the
recalcitrant daughter (played by Bhanupriya), the cheated woman (Geetha) and the most
memorable, the Radhika character (who loses her husband in an accident) are all
splendidly written, three-dimensional characters. While the influence of Mani Ratnam in her
direction is quite obvious, the writing by Suhasini is of high order. Especially given that she had a little less
than 25 minutes for each episode, her portrayals of these women are a joy to
behold. In my tribute to the late
actress Srividya, I wrote that it is portrayals such as these that make me
respect the women in my own life, to value their sacrifices, to treasure the
lessons that they have taught me and to never hesitate to put them on their
deserving pedestals. I do think that it
takes either a female filmmaker or a male with amazing depth of perception of
women to evoke such a strong reaction.
No write-up on women in Tamil movies will be complete
without a mention of K Balachander. Throughout
the 1970s and 80s, he made several films with women as the protagonist, the
fulcrum around which the plot levers turned. Especially the second half of the 70s was a
period when he had strong talents like Kamal Hassan play second fiddle to the
women in his movies, a case in point being the memorable AvargaL. To me, KB’s works
were qualified successes. I admired the different
path that he took. I even admired the
guts and gumption displayed by some of his female characters. But save Nizhal
Nijamagiradhu, I found the latter portions of several of his movies to bend
under the weight of the heavy themes and the portrayal of women as mouthpieces for empowerment. A strong exception to this is Agni Saatchi, which I regard as the
finest work of his long, illustrious career.
The female character in that movie undergoes unspeakable hardships. But KB does something quite wonderful with
the Sivakumar character. He has the
actor drop anchor while Saritha walks away with the movie. But in having Sivakumar shower immense love
on the Saritha character and support her through her psychological trauma, KB ‘says’
a lot of what there is to be said about the responsibility of men towards women. A classic case of 'show, don’t tell,' Agni Saatchi is a must-see (even if a
difficult watch) for lovers of meaningful cinema. In Agni Saatchi, one scene that bothered me
was how Sivakumar resists from divorcing Saritha only after he gets to know of
her pregnancy. His character toes his
parents’ line a little too blindly in the sequence leading to this. But I then tell myself that KB portrayed the
Sivakumar character too as a human with his flaws, not as a cardboard cut-out
for supportive men. As Baradwaj Rangan pointed
out recently in a discussion on KB, “Let’s not throw the baby out with the
bathwater." Very true, for KB charted his own path that even modern day filmmakers rarely have the ability or willingness to take.
It is impossible to deny the responsibility that filmmakers have. While it is unfair to target them and attribute all societal evils to what is put out on the silver screen, it is true that cinema
is a pervasive, influential medium that has been used in Tamil Nadu for
everything from a political platform to a mindless entertainment medium. As critics like Rangan point out, the primary
duty of a filmmaker is to tell a story powerfully, utilizing all the tools and
techniques that this audio visual medium affords them. But the ‘audio’ portions are things people
hear, the visual parts are things that people see and retain. A display of a basic level of respect doesn’t
translate into portraying anyone as an angel.
As author Adam Grant once said, acknowledgement is the truest form of
empathy. To have filmmakers acknowledge
the depth and complexity of women would be a meaningful augury for the future of this medium. Even more so than the average book, images
and sounds from a film do make an impact on the human psyche. To the extent to which directors can tell
stories without taking either gender for granted, not just cinema but also our
society at large, will be richer for that.
***
I didn't get to mention this in my write-up but this is one of my favorite scenes from Aasai. The Suvalakshmi character sparkles here.
As I was watching, with rapt
attention, a few scenes from Mahendran’s Mullum
Malarum, two people that came to my mind were Satyaraj and the late
Director Manivannan. The duo had a long
fruitful association which peaked in their 1994 blockbuster, the political
drama Amaidhi Padai. There were two parallels that I could see
between Rajnikanth and Satyaraj in Mullum
Malarum and Amaidhi Padai respectively. The first, obvious similarity was that they
turned in arguably their greatest performance in these two movies. But digging deeper, I realized that the
reason these actors scaled the zenith of their careers acting wise was that the
directors in question not only understood their persona but also delved deep
and deeper into it until there was no further facet to explore and not an extra
shade left to project.
Released in 1978, Mullum Malarum
was Mahendran’s debut as a director. A
writer of some repute (Thanga Padhakkam,
Mogam Muppathu Varusham), Mahendran, in an interview with Bosskey,
mentioned how he used to bemoan the fact that Rajni’s tremendous potential as an actor had
scarcely met its match in his prior movies.
Prior to the movie being made, Rajni had been acting mainly in
supporting roles, mostly as an antagonist, taking baby steps into the leading
man territory. But in the best of his
performances till then – Moondru Mudichu,
16 Vayathinile or AvargaL – there
was simmering anger. You could always
sense a dynamite ready to explode.
Alfred Hitchcock once said, “There is a bomb under the table. If it explodes, it is surprise. If it doesn’t, it is suspense.” In an inspired move, Mahendran decided that
he would tease the audience by having a light next to the wick of the dynamite but would set it off only when needed. What also benefited Rajni was that the
director (who also wrote the movie) gave him a character that was essentially
good-hearted. In fact, the build-up to
the Rajni – Sarat Babu confrontation is an exercise in skillful writing. Sample the sequence (25:00 – 30:00 min point
in the video below) where Rajni thrashes his colleague for attempting to tarnish his
reputation. If the actual beating of the
hapless colleague is raw, messy and lifelike, what is enormously touching is
the way he describes his affection for his sister. What is also wonderful to watch is how in the
montage scenes, Rajni is marvelously casual. (Watch him chat with the old women!) The supporting cast, especially Samikannu, does a stellar job, proving
to be an apt foil for the charged Rajni as he lets sparks fly.
Watch the 5-min sequence from the 25-min point:
Satyaraj had been a leading man
through the late 80s and early 90s when Manivannan decided to bring back the
villain in him to the screen.
Satyaraj’s fan base would have been just content to see an antagonist
on screen. But Manivannan was not
content in just presenting any villainous character. He envisaged the portrait of an evil man that
was so consumed by thirst for power that he found it impossible to accommodate
any goodness. If you look past the
legendary highlights of the movie like the election scene, you will see shades
in this villain that are rarely seen in antagonists even these days. This is especially true in the case of his
relationship with his wife Sujatha. He
knows that she is a righteous person who doesn’t deserve to be killed. Yet in
his desperation and fear that she will turn into an approver, he orders his
aide to kill him. Satyaraj is brilliant
in this scene, as the hunger for power kills any residual humanity in him. Be it his last conversation with Sujatha or
his casual orders to his henchman to kill her, he brings to life an evil
man who is unable to curb the demon inside.
In a superb touch, he adds, “Please don’t torture her like you do your
other victims. Just slay her and let her
die without suffering.” This was
Manivannan’s pen at its sharpest, not content with exploring the actor’s
persona on the surface and instead, piercing it and tearing it asunder.
Start - 2:28 min point:
Mahendran, with Mullum Malarum, had introduced a style
of writing where painting a leading man in shades of gray would actually make
him seem human, warts and all, and not ‘heroic’ in the way prior leading men of
Tamil cinema had been portrayed. He probably
noted in Rajni’s earlier films that the actor had built the persona of a loose cannon. By keeping the movie strongly rooted in the
sensitive brother-sister relationship, Mahendran is able to showcase the
tenderness of the Rajni character. This allows
some of his character’s questionable actions, be it banging his wife’s head
against the pillar or wanting to marry his sister off to an older man to get
back at Sarat Babu, to be forgiven by the audience. Even in the moving climactic sequence, Rajni’s
ego co-exists with his abiding love for his sister. Mahendran’s shaping of this character is so exquisite that we rarely
realize while watching the movie that he has taken the actor’s persona and
strengths and worked with it and around it.
Watch from 4:15 (with a kerchief handy!)
Manivannan, on the other hand, probably realized that his best chance at making Satyaraj’s ‘performance’ work was to
have him appear effortless and relaxed. But it is a testament to his writing skill
that he gives Satyaraj line after sizzling line that mixes acerbic wit and
perceptive social commentary. Since it
is all tossed off with panache, the lines make us laugh but upon a bit of reflection,
they make us think. Witness the scene where Satyaraj plots a caste-based
riot. In a scene that is hilarious on the
surface, he touches upon religious fanaticism, caste-based
factions and the sad state of affairs of the uneducated voting public. But there
is no highfalutin talk here about any of these heavy duty topics. Manivannan, in a remarkable demonstration of ‘invisible’
writing, places all these issues into the safe hands of the master villain, who
uses his dialogue delivery and casual body language to bring these lines to
life. In none of their earlier
collaborations (such as 24 Mani Neram)
was the villain much beyond a smiling assassin driven by base instincts. But here, Manivannan tapped into the
antagonist in Satyaraj and wrote his character as the personification of sociopolitical evil.
5:30 min point --
Modern day directors like Karthik
Subburaj – his casting of SJ Suryah in Iraivi
was a masterstroke – and Pushkar-Gayathri (the duo behind the sensational Vikram Vedha) do use actors purposefully
to fit their vision. For them, yesteryear
doyens like Mahendran have set high standards.
These directors that do want to shape the future of Tamil cinema will do
well to revisit the work of masters who have invested time and effort into their
writing, casting and making inspired choices in their direction. If history can repeat itself more often, then
the influx of directors into the pantheon of great Tamil filmmakers will happen
at a much faster pace.
The following is an article written by my friend and colleague Nand V. Kumar. It was so beautifully written that I requested that I host it on this blog since Nand hasn't started blogging yet. Thank you, Nand. It is a privilege to post this article here. - Ram
****
Tennis has changed a lot lately. The courts are slower, the rackets larger, the strings tighter, the serves faster, the balls fluffier, the grunting louder, the baseline rallies longer, the fans rowdier, and the sportsmanship rarer. It is no longer a gentleman’s game that it once was. Genteel has morphed into brash, and power has replaced finesse. Promising younger players complaining of boredom and/or premature burnout are now emblematic of the decorum and discipline the game appears to have lost forever. And yet, right in the thick of the change, the remarkable resurgence of a remarkable tennis player has allowed us to pause, recalibrate and rejoice.
Thank goodness, we have Roger Federer.
When Federer steps on a tennis court, none of the above matters. His game straddles different eras like a veritable time machine. If one is lucky enough to catch Federer in the zone and in full flight (there is nothing more resplendent in all of sport), one just might see the past, present, and, yes, the future, coalesce into a display of shot making brilliance so out of the mainstream that one can only marvel at his inventiveness and audacity. Improbably angled crosscourt forehand slice winners, no-look backhand flicks on the full stretch, and spinning squash shots out of no-man’s land are interspersed with sublime shots of controlled aggression on both flanks of the court. Federer is that rare breed of player who evokes nostalgia and anticipation in equal measure. His hybrid game, an unlikely amalgam of finesse and high-powered tennis from current and past eras, takes us back to the future, to a place unlike any we have ever known. Andre Agassi summed it best several years ago when he said, “Federer plays a game with which I am not familiar.”
PeRFection, the monogrammed sign that pops up ubiquitously whenever and wherever Federer is playing, is not just a fan appreciation thing, it gets to the core of his personality, both as player and human being. Astonishingly enough, almost twenty years on the tour and 93 titles later, Federer believes there is still room for improvement. He stepped away from competitive tennis for six months last year, not so much to heal the body but to heal the mind and rekindle his passion for the sport. He came back in January this year with a purpose and a plan; the purpose, to start winning again, especially on the big stage at the majors. The plan: to walk on the court without the burden of expectation, to be aggressive, and “to play the ball…not your opponent.”
There is no tennis champion, past or present, who has embraced life on the tour (and beyond) with as much affirmation of joy as Federer. The racket throwing moments of his youth are long gone, replaced now with a genuine sense of wonder, not just over his own achievements but those of his fellow players as well. When he plays, he is calm and serene, almost Buddha-like. During practice, his relaxed and casual demeanor on the outside belies a steely resolve on the inside. He is a stickler for rules (and excellence), for which the purists love him. If injured he will not play, and if he plays he will not quit midway during a match. He does not wear his celebrity on his sleeve when he hangs out with younger players in the locker room or invites them to be his hitting partner. He hobnobs easily with ball boys and girls and throws pizza parties for them even when he loses. He displays an air of quiet exuberance when he talks to the press, for whom he always somehow makes time. Most endearing of all is the fact that he travels with his family as much as he does (wife, parents, two sets of twins) not just because he can, but because for him the joy of tennis also means having them around as much as possible.
Greatness in most fields of artistic human endeavor is absolute. How can you compare Rembrandt with Picasso or Mozart with Beethoven? You cannot put genius on a scale and assign a numerical value to measure one versus the other. Greatness in tennis is for the most part relative, with grand slam titles, weeks at number one, and head-to-head performance serving as primary differentiating markers. And then we have Federer. All the talk one hears about Federer being the greatest of all time (or not) misses the point altogether. To compare him with others on relative measures is to troll. He is as much an artist as he is a tennis player. His balletic movement and grace on the tennis court compel references to Baryshnikov and Nureyev, so how can relative numbers alone capture the full measure of a man who has brought so much joy to the world?
The final grand slam tournament of the year gets under way in New York tomorrow. Federer may or may not win an unprecedented sixth US Open title, but that the spotlight continues to be on him at this late stage in his career (he turned thirty-six earlier this month) is in itself a celebration of a remarkable athlete and his continuing legacy.
Sanjay was the only child of a cricket player
who went on to represent India. But one
didn’t have to know a thing about the sport or his father Vijay to get to know him
because he never played or followed cricket.
His mother Lakshmi never had an issue with that. What she had an issue with but rarely voiced
was the chasm that existed between her religious beliefs and his atheistic
leanings. He would accompany her to
temples but wait outside until she was finished. She would pray for a bit more quiet to
silence the din in Sanjay’s mind, a place where events from 1998 routinely paid
a visit and played off-key notes.
***
March 20, 1998. MAC stadium in Chennai, India.
The stadium emanated heat like a frying pan. Beads of sweat ran across Vijay’s
forehead. The heat was not the only
culprit; the game had come down to the wire.
His opposition needed 16 runs to win off the last six balls, a stiff but
not impossible task. After he made changes
to the field, he sprinted to his fielding position, barely a few feet away from
the batsman.
No sooner had the bowler completed his delivery
stride than the batsman hit the ball in Vijay’s direction with the ferocity of
a howitzer. The ball traveled at a pace
that even a cricketer blessed with Vijay’s reflexes could not stop the ball from
hitting his forehead. His wail echoed
all around the stadium, most notably in the direction of Lakshmi who had been watching
this from the pavilion, with six-year old Sanjay seated on her lap. As Vijay collapsed, she rushed to his side.
The clock in the hospital seemed frozen. Lakshmi’s stomach felt like the insides of an
overpowered blender. She was surrounded
by her family and Vijay’s teammates. Meanwhile, Sanjay was at home wondering why his grandparents had come to
spend the night with him. As the doctors
and nursing staff flitted in and out of sight, Lakshmi chanted prayers under
her breath. The silence was sickening; she
could hardly hear her own prayers. 24
hours passed. It felt more like 86,400
seconds. The doctor walked up to her and
said something that she heard but could barely register. Regaining the voice in her mind, she signed a
consent form. As she got up from her
chair, she shook the doctor’s hand and said, “Thank you for trying your best,
Doctor.”
***
March 20, 2017. MAC stadium again.
Lakshmi held a gathering every year on this day,
where she presented cash awards to three budding cricketers. She alighted from her car along with Sanjay
and her husband Anil – she had remarried in 2003.
During the course of the ceremony, the batsman
who had struck that unfortunate, fatal blow 19 years ago, walked up to
Sanjay.
He put his arm around Sanjay’s shoulder and
said, “Sanjay, you know, I felt so miserable the day Vijay left us. I wanted to quit the game. But the day after the funeral, Lakshmi
visited my house. She comforted me and
my wife that what had happened was an accident, that my going on to play well
for India would be the best tribute to her husband, a person who simply loved
the game, almost reverentially. I don’t remember
her exact words but they meant a lot to me, my career and my life. And I thought you must know that.”
Sanjay smiled faintly and replied, “Thank you,
Uncle.”
After the ceremony, as they approached their car,
Sanjay said to Anil, “Pa, I need some time to myself. Could you drive back home and I’ll come
later?”
Anil smiled, patted him on his cheek as Lakshmi responded,
“Don’t be late, okay?”
Sanjay went back into the desolate stadium. Save the bees buzzing around, there was not a
sound to be heard. He stood behind the
ropes, in front of the pavilion. For a
few seconds, his eyes were fixed on the area around the 22-yard pitch located
at the center of the magnificent stadium. He sat down on the grass and gazed at the
stillness of the azure sky, vast in its expanse and rich in its simplicity. He looked at the center pitch again and
sported a smile. By now, even those
nearby bees couldn’t punctuate his silence.
Nowadays, whenever he
accompanies Lakshmi, Sanjay continues to wait outside the temple. But then, the means never mattered to Lakshmi.
Note: For the scenes described below, I have pointers to the specific portions of the youtube video (of the full movie) just above the snapshots. The youtube video is embedded at the bottom of the article. Thank you, Anu Warrier, for introducing me to your style of movie essays - that's the format that I have adopted for this piece.
A bunch of friends are having a get-together at a
restaurant. They await the arrival of Divya,
the lone girl in their group. She walks
in wearing a checked shirt, carrying a backpack, sporting an unfussy hairstyle,
her hair kept in place by a black band. Looking
a little pensive, she apologizes for being tardy. When her friend inquires, she responds by
stating that she bumped into her former beau.
As he (wrongly) guesses the nature of the meeting, her face slowly turns
red. Unable to digest her friend’s
comments, she stands up in the middle of the restaurant and creates
a bit of a scene, slapping her friend. Regaining
composure, with her eyes welling up, she explains to him that the reason she
could face her ex was because of the security that his friendship offered
her. This explanation, coming from a
girl who had attempted suicide after being spurned by her boyfriend, says a lot
that there is to be said about the ability of a genuine friendship to offer a
sturdy pillar of support when the emotional foundation of a person is
on shaky ground. Sneha, the actress playing
the role of Divya, handles this scene exquisitely. Anger, sadness and strength all form part of
the gamut of emotions she undergoes in this sequence. She expresses and internalizes in equal
measure – this balance is what makes her performance in Autograph the crown jewel of her career.
Scene starts at the 2:03:40 min point
This ‘balance’ deserves elaboration especially because the creative
brain behind this movie – writer and director Cheran – is not known for
understatement. Cheran’s movies
invariably elicit polarizing opinions.
Some find them unbearably preachy but others find them sweetly old
fashioned. Irrespective of the camp one
belongs to, it is hard to deny the strength of some of his characters. Actors like Parthiban who can internalize
effectively (Bharathi Kannamma) can
serve as a counterpoint to the dramatism (sometimes loudness) of the scenes,
making the characters lifelike and the sequences more realistic. Never
has this been illustrated better in Cheran’s oeuvre than in Sneha’s masterful performance here. An actress blessed with large, expressive
eyes, Sneha had the acting chops to make her emoting look effortless. Rarely did she look awkward on screen because
she seldom tried to oversell a moment. But
on the other hand, for tragic sequences, she used every facial muscle to bring
the moment to life. The scene where she
realizes that her mother has passed away is a case in point. Especially poignant is the way she cradles
her mother, tearing up uncontrollably. It
is raw, powerful emotion erupting out of a face that looks like it stored each iota of sadness in every cell only for them to tear asunder.
Sequence begins at the 2:14:21 min point
Two other moments deserve mention because Sneha, at first
glance, might appear to do very little. But
owing to the thoughtful writing and deft direction, she is resplendent. The first of this is the
brief scene outside the orphanage where she has decided to live,
following the death of her mother. Her
friend Cheran is a little upset with her decision but understands and respects
her choice, describing the inevitability of separations in a
relationship. We hear her voice (splendid voice work by Savitha) in the background
as she talks affectionately, almost reverentially, about her friendship with
him. The casualness of Sneha’s body
language is in perfect contrast to the heavy duty lines that we hear in the background. As I mentioned earlier, you need a natural
like her to make this kind of drama work.
2:19:36 min point --
The other moment is in the climax at the wedding hall. In a small but lovely moment sans any
dialogue, Sneha teases Cheran for removing his beard. The impish smile is just about perfect given
the comfort level that exists between them.
Again, this is an instance of a talented actor bringing a touch that helps
make the character well-rounded.
2:36:30 min point --
In the hero-dominated world of Tamil cinema, it is rare to
find well-fleshed out characters for women. But upon closer inspection, the true
torchbearers of sensible cinema have always invested their female leads with
agency. Seasoned veterans like Balachander,
Mahendran, Mani Ratnam and Vasanth to the latest generation of filmmakers like
Karthik Subburaj (Anjali and Pooja Devariya in Iraivi) and Seenu Ramasamy (Tamanna in Dharmadurai) may have had markedly different filmmaking styles. But the one common aspect of these perspicacious
creators is their vision to project their women through the lens of feminism
and not just through the male gaze which can be sometimes be covered with the
blinders of chauvinism and sexism. It is when we see roles such as Sneha's in Autograph that we see the value of this thoughtfulness. Sincere thanks to Cheran and to Sneha for giving me such an abiding memory of a well-etched character in an unforgettable movie.
