Wednesday, December 27, 2017

Afloat in New Waters

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. 

Sunday, December 17, 2017

Visu(al) Medium: Musing on Visu’s films

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. 

Tuesday, December 5, 2017

Anchors in Stormy Seas: Thoughts on piety and rational thought

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. 


Sunday, November 19, 2017

Vulnerability, c/o The Self

“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. 


Sunday, October 29, 2017

Aaha turns 20!

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. 
  • The one off-key performance in Aaha was Sukanya’s.  I felt that she should have been reined in a lot more.  Because the dying character being preternaturally chirpy is a cliché.  But the actress that strikes a discordant note with her performance makes up for it with heart-rending grace notes in the hospital sequence.  Raghuvaran’s emoting too is controlled, moving and riveting.  
    • 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

Sunday, October 15, 2017

In Pursuit of Meaning

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.”

Sunday, September 24, 2017

Portrayal of women in Tamil Cinema: A few reflections

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.

Saturday, September 9, 2017

The depths of an actor’s persona

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.


Friday, September 1, 2017

Thank Goodness for Roger Federer - A guest post by Nand V. Kumar

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.”

If you think an old dog cannot learn new tricks, you simply have not watched a reincarnated Federer lately. Remember the fifth set at the Australian Open final? Down a service break against his biggest nemesis, Federer went on a tear, winning five straight games to snatch (pardon the cliché) an improbable victory from the jaws of defeat. It was arguably the best five games he ever played. He was fearless and free-wheeling throughout the match, but during that five-game stretch, he literally abandoned all caution, stepping in on second serves, taking the ball early, hitting his backhand with impunity, and charging the net at the earliest invite. One commentator on ESPN exclaimed Federer was “flying around the court again now.” The joie de vivre that had been missing from his game in recent years was back, and Federer was at the summit once more. Six months later, in July, Federer went on a tear yet again to win a record eighth Wimbledon title without dropping a set. Writing in The New Yorker after that match, Louisa Thomas eloquently states, winning (for Federer) “seems like a natural consequence of a more general joy.”

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.


Sunday, August 20, 2017

And there was silence

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.  


Saturday, August 12, 2017

Autograph Memories

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.