20 years of Iruvar: My journey with the movie

“Adhigaaram…Aatchi…Padhavi-ngardhu oru Poruppu; Aayutham Illa,” says one youngster, his eyes filled with hope, his heart brimming with idealism.  His friend replies, “Varumai Ozhiyanum…Illaamai Ozhiyanum.”  A couple of decades later, the two of them head opposing political parties, with one party worker claiming that the level of corruption in one party is 10 times worse than that of the other.  A few years later, one of the two friends, in the last stages of his life, feels the need to sit next to the other at a wedding.  Seated next to each other, they don’t exchange words.  The outward silence is probably the result of a thousand voices in both their heads, as they encapsulate the five decades of their friendship into five minutes.  A friendship that, over time, lost its innocence as a result of the trappings of realpolitik, jealousy and insecurity.  In those few minutes, the friends that had lost sight of their wide eyed dreams, slip into a joint reverie.  The next day, one of them passes away peacefully in his sleep.  The other delivers a stirring soliloquy.  End of movie.

Seen one way, Mani Ratnam’s Iruvar is the tale of a friendship that never lost its ‘core’ despite potent forces – some of them circumstantial, others character foibles - chipping away at every side of it.  In the world of thamizh cinema, where characters and relationships are invariably painted in terms of black and white, Ratnam weaves a magnificent tapestry, so vast in its expanse, yet so nuanced in its shades, and knits it with such loving attention to detail that it makes for a new, enriching experience for a viewer every time he or she sees it.  

As the saying goes, “Power corrupts; absolute power corrupts absolutely.”  As the two friends – Mohan Lal and Prakash Raj, giving the performances of their illustrious careers – gain celebrity status and political mileage, it is touching to see them almost struggle to retain the essence of their being from their younger days.  This is especially true in the case of the Mohan Lal character.  He rose to fame and power from humble beginnings.  So, he is especially sensitive about hunger and people (irrespective of social status) being well-fed.  In a scene where Revathy (playing Prakash Raj’s first wife) introduces her shy family members as fans of his, he promptly asks, “Neenga elaam saaptaacha?”  Years later, when he (now, the Chief Minister) orders for his friend to be arrested, he first says to the police officer that it’s not really a “victory” since his old friend is now in jail.  And, he adds, “Saaptacha?”  This moment is acted and directed in a completely understated manner, which is exactly why it resonated so profoundly. 

With Iruvar, the thing that I have noticed is that as time passes by, the movie ‘speaks’ to me differently.  As I look at my own relationships with my loved ones over time, I see that familial priorities, longstanding friendships, professional ambitions, materialistic desires, a quest for inner peace, all vie for space in my mind and heart.  Cutting through everything, I sometimes pause to ask myself whether I still retain that ‘core’ of my being - that I mentioned earlier in the context of the leads of Iruvar - while growing up and trying to be, not act, mature.  It is an important question, at least for me.  And, it’s a testament to the invisibility (a term that I read in a write-up by Baradwaj Rangan) of Ratnam’s filmmaking that the movie has never appeared to shove anything down my throat; instead, it allows me to luxuriate in my own thoughts and questions that result from the movie-watching experience.  

For all its audiovisual splendor, be it AR Rahman’s mesmerizing music (this is one of Rahman's best background scores too), the glorious cinematography by Santhosh Sivan or the marvelous artwork by Sameer Chanda, Iruvar has very few moments where these aspects call attention to themselves.  (An exception in point is the “Unnodu Naanirundha” sequence.)  Instead, the movie mostly invites us to watch the lives of these characters unfold in ways that they themselves could have scarcely imagined.  This approach is a reason why Ratnam comes across as an extremely mature filmmaker here, one who is in complete sync with his collaborators, working to ensure that every element contributes strongly to the cinema verite feel.  This approach was, in fact, one of the issues that I used to have with Iruvar.  Earlier, I used to feel that, for the first time in his career, Ratnam’s approach to a film and its characters came across as a little - for the lack of a better word - cold.  Certain movies move me, certain movies make me laugh but I guess with Iruvar, over time, the  movie has made me do two things – one was to reconcile to the fact that imperfections in the lead characters will always make them less endearing to audiences.  The other was to have the willingness to move away from the the evocation of pronounced emotion, to evaluate the worthiness of a movie.  

Pronounced emotions were probably on the diametrically opposite end of the acting spectrum as Mohan Lal and Prakash Raj were, in this movie.  If not for anything else, just to watch these two performers interact with one another in their scenes together, is one of the joys to be had in Iruvar.  A case in point - there are two similar, yet contrasting scenes in the first and second halves of the movie.  In both scenes, Prakash Raj is in the middle of a speech when adoring crowds gravitate towards the Mohan Lal character (the camerawork is stupendous; the camera literally sways in the direction of the Mohan Lal character).  In the first scene, Prakash Raj affectionately invites him on stage.  But in the second scene, which happens years later, Lal enters the arena late on purpose to test the magnitude of his following.  In this scene, Prakash Raj has to conceal his anger and instead, sport a faint smile in front of the huge crowds!  Just the way in which the duo play these two scenes is a case study in understatement of performances.  Several other members of the cast turn in solid performances – most notably Aishwarya Rai, playing two strong, contrasting characters equally well; Tabu, acing the short but strong role of the second wife of the Prakash Raj character; Nasser, playing the mentor to the two leads.   But to me, Iruvar was, is and will always remain the story of the two friends. 

As a huge admirer of Ratnam’s work, I sometimes experience a sense of wistfulness when I go back in my mind to the January of 1997 when Iruvar opened to a disastrous commercial response.  Of course, Ratnam moved on to explore other genres and constantly reinvent himself with various degrees of success.  But I do genuinely feel sad that, save a richly deserved National Award for Prakash Raj, the movie garnered true critical acclaim only over the years, to become a sort of cult favorite among critics and cineastes.  Beyond a point, it ceases to matter to me.  Because, every genuine movie lover makes a movie his own, irrespective of what others say or feel.  To me, Iruvar is a movie that I will continue to cherish, for the simple reason that the movie – as immutable as the outputs of this medium are – has metamorphosed over time to mean something different, something deeper.  That, I suppose, is sometimes more than enough!  Thank you, Team Iruvar.

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The following is a cartoon sketched by Ravishanker (aka Zola) - I think it's brilliantly done!  Thank you, Ravishanker!

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I don’t think this was the official trailer of the movie as the title of the video suggests.  But the video is cut very well indeed:

Handle with Care: Thoughts on managing talent and handling success

For all its faults, especially around the issue of authenticity, Peter Biskind’s “Easy Riders, Raging Bulls” is a riveting read.  The book, which I read recently, transports the reader to the Hollywood of the 1970s where brilliant, sparkling talents such as Francis Ford Coppola (director of The Godfather, among other classics) shone like a star, only for the world, and probably themselves, to realize that they were shooting stars who were meant to light up the silver screen all too ephemerally.  These creators had no idea how to handle the money but more importantly, did not know how to deal with their success, their newfound creative freedom or the constant array of sycophants that surrounded them.  But given that many of us might not have the spotlight on us with the amount of lumen that showbiz afforded (or, cursed?) these people, let us leave these easy riders and raging bulls in their place.  Let’s instead shift our attention to average people – talents no doubt, but someone that you might see on a bus, not on a billboard – and everyday issues relating to talent, success and failure. 

As I have lived, studied and worked in a variety of settings, I have had the fortune of seeing people in various walks of life that are talented in myriad ways.  I have come to realize that the people that I admire the most are the ones that don’t take their talent for granted.  They are the ones that realize that circumstances might not always work in their favor, people might not always be fair, and others’ prejudices might stand in their way.  But they know that instead of letting their wounds fester, they sometimes have to bide their time and continue to hone their talents.  They recognize the perils of superficiality and empty posturing.  They seem to be acutely aware of a talent that they possess, coupled with the realization that the value of a gift is maximized not only by fleeting zings of inspiration but also by old fashioned grunt work.  I have seen this quality in a star cricketer like Rahul Dravid.  But I have also seen this trait in even my Toastmasters speaking club, where certain fellow speakers practice diligently, realizing that not every speech might become a Gettysburg address.  But they wisely realize that the constancy of practice can balance the variability associated with luck, circumstances and other extraneous factors.  These people – stars in their own right - engage in an activity for the sheer pleasure of engagement and self-satisfaction, with awards and rewards being happy by-products, a sort of a fringe benefit, not the real reason to engage in an area where they exhibit talent. 

Another element of managing one’s talent that I reckon is sometimes given short shrift is taking in praise, criticism and ridicule all with equanimity.  Randy Pausch famously remarked, “Your critics are the ones telling you they still love you and care.”  It is a much more layered statement than an initial impression might suggest.  That’s because critics come in all shapes and forms – some are well-meaning and have a way with words; others are genuine people that might lack tact; some resentful folks know where it hurts you most and jab you there; others are people whose approval you seek, that give you apathy instead; and, of course, there are those social climbers that proffer empty praise, expecting to piggyback on your success.  That was not even an exhaustive list, by the way!  As one’s talent flourishes, it is vitally important to find out those ‘true’ people whose feedback you benefit the most from.  If one can be open, egoless (or at least, with minimal ego) and can listen to well-meaning advice from a peer or a mentor, then they keep maximizing their chances to evolve, to adapt and to learn from mistakes.

                                                                                            

The reason why Lakshmy Ramakrishnan’s Ammani left such a lasting impression on me was its emphasis on looking inward for peace and joy.  The exquisite “Mazhai Ingillaye” song underscores this.  The first line goes, “Mazhai Ingillaye…Veyyilum Illaye…Vanavil Vandhadhey…”  (“There is no rain, no sunshine, yet I see a rainbow”)  Weeks after I watched this movie, this theme got stuck in my mind.  That has partially to do with how I regard the thoughts and emotions that come with success that was spawned by the exhibition of a particular talent.  The movie made me reflect on how external validation of what we do might feel nice, but in order to steadily, stably and fully realize our talents, it is vitally important that we travel inward.  That we look for that drive where we are able to cruise along, assured but not overconfident in our abilities, applying the brakes when necessary, to scan, to reflect and cut out all the external noise.  This way, we blunt the ability of an external factor to cause a dent on our confidence.  And, this would, in turn, mean that we can travel with our talents for as long as the fuel of our desires allows us.

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Talent hidden in plain sight - Thoughts on actor Prabhu

Commercial success can be a double edged sword, as far as thamizh cinema is concerned.  On the one hand, it can give the people associated with that success tremendous clout and can act as insurance to guard them during any subsequent misfires.   But the flip side is that there is invariably pressure to make films in a similar milieu, with similar characters.  It is very rare to find a Mani Ratnam who had the guts and confidence to follow up a heavy duty Nayagan with a feather light Agni Nakshathram.  In the case of Prabhu, P. Vasu’s Chinna Thambi was probably the best thing that happened to him…and the worst.  While it gave him tremendous boost as a saleable hero (he had been succeeding primarily in dual-hero films till then), what happened as a result is that he acted in scores of films set in the rural milieu.  It was not a bad thing per se because he looked the part and acted well in most of his movies, some good, others not so good.  But the success of Chinna Thambi meant that his urbanity was rarely seen on screen. And, in 2005, Chandramukhi happened.  Though a roaring success for Prabhu’s production company, the “Ena Koduma Saravanan” line that he uttered in dramatic fashion found its way into the annals of infamous thamizh cinema lines, along with its numerous impressions that followed.  But as an avid movie lover that watched his rise in the late 80s to the mid-90s, I would rather not have him merely associated with that line, hence this piece.

Mani Ratnam was probably the first director to showcase Prabhu’s sense of style.  An aesthete par excellence, Ratnam gave Prabhu a wonderful role in Agni Nakshathram.  As the older son of a bigamist, with a temper that could leave yoga teachers scratching their heads, Prabhu was excellent in the role of Gautham…sorry, Gautham Vishwanath! Long before Kamal Haasan in Kuruthi Punal, it was Prabhu in Agni… who made Aviator sunglasses fashionable!  Prabhu exuded style and attitude in the amazingly shot confrontation scenes (see first video below) with Karthik.  But, I liked him equally in the sequence where he plays a protective older brother to his step-sister.  Especially lovely is the understated manner in which he reacts to Tara calling him, “Anna.” 

Prabhu collaborated with Ratnam in two more movies – Anjali and Raavanan – playing character roles.  While I am not a huge fan of the modern-day Ramayana adaptation, I enjoyed Prabhu’s understated performance in Anjali.  Again, the role of an ex-convict which could have been overwrought and overplayed, was etched beautifully by Ratnam and played well by Prabhu.  (I am not embedding any videos since Anjali is a heartbreaking movie that I don’t want to revisit.)

As I had mentioned in last week’s post, Prabhu was also very good in Kaliyugam, directed by the late K Subaash, who had assisted Ratnam before making his debut as a director in this movie.  Prabhu played an upright police officer whose family life is ruined by the villains.  Not exactly a novel theme but Subaash sure did inherit at least some of his mentor’s sense of style and this resulted in a slick, no-nonsense thriller.  The scene where Prabhu prepares upma for his son was a funny one where his comic sense is given good fodder.  Subaash also made the part-comedy, part-thriller Uthama Purushan with Prabhu.  This was a role to which Prabhu brought a mix of sophistication, underplay and gentle humor.  Watch the climax (starting at the 2 hr 10 min point) where he first earnestly apologizes to Revathi and then flirts harmlessly with Radhika and you’ll know what I am talking about!

Two other aspects of Prabhu’s performances that deserve mention are his comic timing and dance skills.  Blessed with the gift of comic timing, he could really supplement good written material with myriad expressions and great dialogue delivery.  A comic performance in the later years of his career that I loved was his turn as a henpecked husband in Charlie Chaplin.  The scene (link below) where he shifts the blame, after getting caught red-handed by his wife, is a hoot.  His genial onscreen persona meant that he invariably shared great chemistry with his co-actors be it Sathyaraj (Manivannan’s Chinna Thambi Periya Thambi) or Coundamani (Thedinen Vandhadhu being my favorite).  He was also a scene stealer in Sirai Chaalai, where he shared screen space with Mohan Lal.  A grim drama for the most part, the film received tremendous impetus thanks to Prabhu's sharp, witty one liners.  The best part of his performance was that the humor didn't stick out like a sore thumb.  (He was also excellent in some of the serious scenes - for instance, the one where he apologizes to Mohan Lal for being responsible for the punishment that the latter received at the hands of the inhumane jailer.)

Start watching at the 1 hr 8 min 42 sec point:

When it came to dancing, Prabhu – despite his girth – could execute his steps very gracefully.   One of my favorite memories of the late 80s is the “Vaanam Enna” song from Vetri Vizha, where he matched Kamal Haasan’s steps effortlessly.  He also inherited his father’s illustrious genes for ‘performing’ in a song.  Similar to how Sivaji Ganesan would come out with wonderful expressions to match TMS’ singing, Prabhu infused a lot of life into his songs by the way he expressed himself.  “Thuliyile” from Chinna Thambi was one.  But one of his splendid performances in a song was in the “En Kadhale” song from Duet.  His expressions in this song (especially when he plays Anjali Anjali on the sax, at the 3:10 min point in the video below) are marvelous. 

In recent years, as a character actor, he has not gotten too many opportunities to display his considerable talent.  Nevertheless, in well-written (even if relatively brief) roles such as 3 (I loved the scene where he disbelievingly asks Dhanush, “Mokkai-ya?!”) and Something Something…, he has acquitted himself admirably.  But really, as an actor, he deserves to be known for more than just the nincompoop of his largest hit or the line that he uttered in Rajni’s 2005 blockbuster.  If that is all that we associate him with, therein would lie the true kodumai! 

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Dishyum, dishyum! -- A piece on some of my favorite stunt sequences in thamizh cinema

The recent passing away of director K Subaash (Chathriyan, Ezhaiyin Siripil, Sabash and others) made me go on a youtube binge of scenes from some of his films.  As I was watching clips from a few of his films – most notably, Kaliyugam, which led to my writing this piece – I realized that I was not fast-forwarding some of the action sequences.  It dawned on me that there were two reasons for this – one was that the action sequences looked surprisingly slick for their time and had aged a lot better than I thought they would.  And secondly, and this was important to me, the stunts seemed real.  None of the unnecessarily rope-induced acts of gravity defiance.  None of those computer effects that sometimes make the stunts look more like video game effects these days.  They were just supremely well-choreographed and you got a sense of space, movement and more importantly, emotion.  I say emotion because my mind went back to what Mani Ratnam once said about not shooting his song sequences outside India (in response to a question from Baradwaj Rangan).  He talked about how songs, to start with, stand outside the story to an extent.  To further transport – literally, I suppose! – the characters to alien lands would mean that the audience was being pulled further away from the milieu of the story.  One could apply Ratnam’s logic to stunt sequences too – they are an accepted part of the grammar of Indian cinema.  Grammar, by its nature, has boundaries.  And, to the extent to which the boundaries are respected even as directors and stunt choreographers utilize modern technologies, the more arresting the stunts will be.  So, without further ado, let me list a few action sequences from thamizh movies that I have really enjoyed over the years. 

The underground sequence in Kaliyugam:

As mentioned above, one of the sequences that I had remembered from the Prabhu-Raghuvaran starrer Kaliyugam, more than two decades after I had seen it, was the stunt sequence in the underground tunnel, choreographed by the late Vikram Dharma.  The lens work by YN Murali is quite stunning here, especially the moments where the theepandham is the sole source of light.  Prabhu, for all his girth, is surprisingly quick with his movements and matches the stuntman (Ponnambalam?) for skill and agility. 

Watch from the 1 hr 10 min point:

The Rajnikanth introduction scene in Thalapathi:

At the time of its release, Thalapathi was accused of featuring gratuitous violence.  While that point could certainly be debated, what, to me, is hard to debate is the actual quality of the action scenes and their value as a storytelling tool.  Rajnikanth’s introduction in this fight sequence in the rain was raw and brutal.  The fact that the murder of the henchman comes back to haunt him later is a reason why this setup, where his rage is unleashed, is so important. 

Watch from the 1:58 min point:

The climactic fight sequence of Thevar Magan:

Kamal Haasan and Mani Ratnam were probably the two people most responsible (or guilty, depending on how you look at it) for bringing bloody, realistic violence to tamil cinema with their Nayagan.  Instead of choosing something from Nayagan, I wanted to choose this scene from Thevar Magan because I truly believe that Nayagan just marked the start of a period where Kamal went from strength to strength, exploring frontier after unexplored frontier in various facets of cinema.  When it comes to action sequences, Kamal has been – and, not entirely unjustifiably – accused of just coming across as masochistic and bloody for the sake of it.  But if you observe keenly, a lot of his stunt sequences do come with a sense of purpose.  And, no better example of that than the climax of Thevar Magan.  Just the sheer dynamics of it are awe-inspiring – the protagonist that just doesn’t want to fight versus a villain whose bloodlust has consumed him.  This is brought out in gripping fashion by the action choreographer (Vikram Dharma, again) and the cinematographer (PC Sreeram).

Watch from the 2:30 min point:

The opening sequence of Gentleman:

The year 1993 witnessed two of the most stunning action spectacles to grace thamizh cinema.  One was Thiruda Thiruda and the other was Gentleman.  Both these films featured brilliantly shot sequences on a train.  But I picked the sequence from Gentleman because the build-up to it (with the jeep chase) features some intelligent maneuvers and some scintillating background music by ARR - the score when Arjun takes off his beard is fantastic.  Though this scene does have some gravity-defying moments like Arjun’s jeep flying over the train (yes, you read that right!), it is still a fine exhibition of perfect masala movie action that requires just a little bit – not dollops – of suspension of disbelief.  What makes it even more impressive is that this grand sequence is what opens the movie.  What a start for Shankar, the director, who made his debut with this movie.  Wish he had retained his sensible instincts (with respect to action) from this movie and had respected the laws of gravity a little more in his latter movies!  (Remember the ridiculous flying cars in the Prarthana theatre sequence in Sivaji?!)

Watch from the 5:40 min point:

The pre-intermission sequence of Baasha:

Rajnikanth once joked in an interview that he had a tough time understanding Mani Ratnam (while making Thalapathi) since the latter wanted him to showcase certain emotions even during the fight sequences.  The intermission sequence of Baasha shows that whatever lessons Rajni may have learned from Ratnam certainly stuck!  Because he is at the peak of his powers not only as a star but also as a forceful actor, bringing out the hitherto unseen (to his family and to us in the audience) side of the don.  Simple lines like “Ulley Po” have become the stuff of legends!  If you notice, the actual stunts themselves aren’t exactly novel but the sound design (my favorite being the train sounds that accompany Yuvarani’s stunned expression) and the cinematography (by the late PS Prakash) add to the amazing visceral impact. 

Watch from the 1:40 min point:

The martial arts sequence in Anniyan:

I reckon that to fans of Shankar’s early work, Anniyan featured the best of him as well as the worst.  While the crux of the story held intrigue and his usual commercial elements – especially the rollicking comedy by Vivek – were intact, one could argue that it was with this movie that Shankar started to take steps and then eventually, leaps out of the bounds of realism and even basic cinematic logic and started relying increasingly on visual splendor.  While Anniyan contained some outlandish ideas (especially the huge conference that Anniyan assembles), one sequence stood out for me – the stunt sequence at the martial arts facility.  Sure, he did include some over-the-top Matrix style effects but the hand-to-hand combat is stunning and even the time-freeze cinematography is used imaginatively without being overdone.  My favorite moment was where the camera freezes mid-air and circles around Vikram and Sadha – not exactly the kind of realism that I crave but then again, with a Shankar film, I was thankful that with this sequence Shankar tried at least a little to rein in the urge to behave like a computer geek that had taken over Lucasfilm! 

This video contains the entire sequence but my favorite part is the mano a mano duel at the 4:40 min point: 

I sincerely hope that as filmmakers try to expand their vistas and break global boundaries (like "Kaaka Muttai" and "Visaranai" did recently) that action sequences are placed strategically within the framework of the movie and play out at a pitch that is not incongruous with the rest of the movie.  Why not have special effects in service of the stunts that, in turn, move the story forward?  The combination of realism and emotion-driven stunts would indeed be the most potent one-two punch that discerning movie goers would crave!

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To Cricket, With Love

I told myself, “You couldn’t possibly be getting goose bumps.  After all, there is not a single player on the ground!”  But no, the goose bumps were absolutely real, as I set foot into Lord’s, a cricket ground that is considered “The Home of Cricket.”  I was in London recently for a business trip and just two hours after I checked into my hotel on Sunday, I walked to the ground for a 100-minute tour.  It was a tour that I had booked online (or so I thought, as you will discover soon).  As I approached the ground, I started seeing signs that pointed to the ground.  I started feeling a little nervous.  Don’t ask me why.  Then, I approached the booth to pick up my tour badge.  And, the elderly lady behind the counter asked, “What’s your confirmation number, Sir?”  I pathetically replied, “Ma’am, I didn’t get my confirmation number via e-mail.”  (Note to self – there is a reason why the “PrtSc” button exists on the keyboard!)  She politely but firmly responded, “There is not much I can do without a confirmation number, Sir.  And, we are sold out.”  Sold out?  This was the last tour of the day.  Plus, I had work the next day and I had to travel to Birmingham the day after.  I pleaded to her, “Ma’am, I am an ardent fan of cricket.  I have come from the USA and I am here for a very brief visit.  Could you please accommodate me?  I can buy a ticket now!”   Einstein’s theory of relativity was proven beyond doubt for the next two minutes when she was on the phone with the tour guide – two minutes seemed more like 120,000 milliseconds!  She got off the phone and said, “Credit card please!”  Credit card?  I would have given my entire bank balance for this ticket!  Brilliant, as the British like to exclaim! 

Lord's (Photo Courtesy of...my cell phone!)

I walked through the pavilion, the England dressing room, the visitors’ dressing room and the players’ balcony.  That balcony where Kapil Dev, with his toothy grin, held the 1983 World cup trophy aloft.  That balcony where the cheekily irreverent Krish Srikkanth blissfully smoked a cigarette as players were celebrating the win.  That balcony where Sourav Ganguly decided that it was too warm and took his shirt off.  (Of course, I am kidding about the warmth part!)  The tour guide mentioned that Ganguly had been fined his entire match fee for that act.  I am sure that Ganguly considers that the best money that he has foregone!  I was feeling so euphoric, so light that I could have been levitating!  I then looked at the famed honors board.  Players’ names go up there on the board when they score a century or take five wickets.  As I saw the names of some of my favorite cricketers – Sunil Gavaskar, Dilip Vengsarkar, Ian Botham, Rahul Dravid, to name a few – I was gleaming with pride.  And by the time, I heard the tour guide say, “This is where Sachin sits,” pointing to a place in the visitors’ dressing room, my euphoria entered stratospheric heights!  After I profusely thanked the staff for accommodating me, I took a stroll outside the ground, just internalizing and reflecting on the sheer joy that the visit gave me.  As if there was any confirmation needed, I realized that I didn’t just enjoy the game, didn’t just look to get entertained by it.  I loved it.  Absolutely LOVED it.

The love stems from the fact that the game has given me a lot and has taught me a lot.  My own cricketing skills have ebbed and flowed over the years.  But that’s not really the point.  The game has given me some of my best friends with whom I would not have bonded as much if not for the love of the game.  The game has made me fight with my friends (when we were younger) when things got really close.  Over the years, the game has made me see value in cherishing victories (be it when playing or watching) with others.  But it has also made me see the beauty in the grace that comes from accepting a hard fought defeat.  It has taught me to reflect, to introspect when things go wrong; and I am not talking just about cricket.  It has taught me that failure can sometimes be a very hard-nosed but an undoubtedly perspicacious teacher.  That to maximize one’s ability is of paramount importance.  As I have matured, I could see that the game kept teaching me ethics - that it is not okay to cheat, be it ball tampering or match fixing or whatever other means.  I could even see that what I enjoyed was not watching people sledge but players putting an arm around an opponent following a close game.  The players – they are the ones that make the game what it is.  Not the rulebooks, not the colorful jerseys, not the lit-up stumps, not the scorecards, not the records.  The captains that become great leaders through a combination of skill, strategy and psychological acuity.  The players that become great followers through a mix of talent, industry and fortitude.  As much as they make or break the game, it behooves every player, irrespective of their stature or level of the game, to respect the game for what it gives them.  It is not okay to tarnish it in any way, shape or form.  As Mr. Spiderman said, “With great power, comes great responsibility!”

Ashes 2005 - Andrew Flintoff consoling Brett Lee after England's narrow win in the Birmingham Test (Photo courtesy of "The Telegraph")

While I admit to feeling indignant and getting furious at the Indian team whenever it lost (especially if the game was there for the taking), I realized over the years that the people in the game that have inspired me aren’t always the monstrously talented ones that broke records and scaled tall peaks.  It was also those indefatigable workhorses (like Anil Kumble and Javagal Srinath) that were rarely in the limelight but yet worked hard and played passionately.  They have taught me a thing or two about putting in one’s best foot forward and, as Harsha Bhogle once eloquently said, “...perfect the process of performance and don’t allow the pressure of the result to choke your performance.”  Does it apply to things beyond cricket?  No prizes for guessing the answer.

As I reflect on all of the highs and lows that I have experienced, watching my favorite players succeed at times and fail at others, I realize that cricket, as a sport, is like religion, to a large extent.  Cricket is capable of bringing great unity and great divisiveness.  But it is essential to see that a rival is different from an enemy.  Those that ‘get’ the core of what it is – be it cricket or their religious faith - can see its full beauty and get comfort from it.  Those that misuse it for their own advancement, like some players or administrators that we have all read about, bring a sense of shame to their country and those that believe in them.  Not too dissimilar from politicians that play the religion or caste card for their own gain.  After all, if cricket is like a religion, a cricket ground is akin to a shrine.  Eureka!  That explains the goose bumps that I experienced.  Lord’s, the “home of cricket”, is in fact an important shrine of the religion that is cricket.  Am I glad that I was granted entry! 

Cricket, I love you.  Truly, madly, deeply…

I also bow to you.  Sincerely, passionately, respectfully…

***

Deep-rooted beliefs

“It reassured me, and it felt like a hug from a time machine.”  That is how fellow blogger Anusha described (in a recent write-up titled, “A Personal Odyssey”) the feelings that sounds from a mosque evoked in her, given that she had spent her formative years in Kuwait.  This evocatively coined phrase led to my reflecting on my own roots.  And, the deeper I thought, the more I realized that a lot of my deep-rooted beliefs about a diverse set of things such happiness, contentment, love, loss, friendship, spirituality, education, work, have actually metamorphosed quite significantly over time.  At first, that might sound paradoxical.  Deep-rooted beliefs, by their definition, aren't supposed to mutate, you might think.  But from family to friends, from mentors to peers, from authors to bloggers, the people that collectively shape my thinking are too many to keep count of.  While I do derive immense pleasure from the element of surprise that an open mind gifts me, I also realized something else.  That the elements of my being that tend to be the most fulfilling and gratifying are those that are tied strongly to my roots.  Just like how it is absolutely essential to continually water the root of a plant, continual learning actually helps make the beliefs firmly rooted, retaining the broad strokes even when the colors have changed!  And, as we ‘grow,’ it is absolutely important to acknowledge our ‘roots’ – be it a high school teacher that inculcated certain values in us or an author that made you flesh out your thoughts on a particular topic with an amazingly counter-intuitive insight. 

A high school teacher.  I didn’t pull that out of thin air.  I have actually been the lucky ‘student’ that learned a thing or two about not only the subject matter but also about higher order things from truly special people.  The high school teacher is an Aunt of mine who tutored me in Physics.  The thing that I continue to admire about her is her calm, collected nature.  Even when I use to give her grief with my lack of work ethic at that time, she would handle me in a firm but polite manner, never letting her decibel level go beyond a certain range.  Something that makes me respect her even more is the fact that she had lost both her parents in an airplane accident when she was in her teens.  It was something that she has never mentioned to me.  It amazes me that she has never had an ounce of self-pity ever.  She just focuses on being warm, loving and nurturing to anyone that has the fortune of knowing her.  As I have gone through the highs and lows of my own life, I have kept in constant touch with her, making it a point to spend quality time with her and her loving kids whenever I go to Chennai.   Thinking of her and talking to her consistently do two things to me.  One is, I get a sense of satisfaction of keeping her informed of my development as a person and as a professional.  It makes me feel close to my roots.  And secondly, it makes me appreciate the boon that is life.  That despite the fact that she had to endure a significant, unfortunate life event in the formative years of her life, she developed into a role model.  By being amazingly and consistently positive and centered, she makes me look up to her - as much as I might feel indignant when unfair things (such as the untimely loss of a loved one) happen that it behooves me to shower my loved ones with as much genuine love and affection as I can, while staying composed during challenging times.  Am I there at the lofty pedestal that I place my teacher on?  No, I am not.  Do I think I will get there eventually?  I will try with utmost sincerity, for I have the responsibility of paying it forward.

An ill-informed belief that I used to have was that loved ones should accept me completely, unequivocally, warts and all.  And, I would balk at suggestions to, for instance, control my temper, retorting impulsively, “This is who I am.  You ought to accept me.”  To change meant that I was moving away from the core of who I was, I would say.  But as I mellowed down a tad, I began to realize that it was not the roots that I was sticking to.  It was more the weeds!   I began to realize that anything that made loved ones feel less loved was actually inimical to the core of who I was.  That to feel a sense of entitlement and demand impunity was both callous and cowardly.  As a result, personal development is something that I invest a lot of time in. That is where being open to getting inspired by the unlikeliest and unfancied sources helps me.  

As I look to the future, I hope that people that comprise my roots can continue to see me grow personally and professionally.  This way, I can live in the present and yet continually experience the loving, comforting hug of that "time machine!"

The glimpses of humanity in “Mahanadhi”

As Kamal Haasan turns 62 today, Nov 7^th, I want to rewind the clock 22 years in time to the Pongal of 1994 when “Mahanadhi," written by Kamal and directed by Santhana Bharathi, was released.  Viewers, with some of the limited pre-release publicity, probably thought that Kamal was making a family drama, no more no less.  But as the turnstiles opened on January 14^th, what people got to experience was the most potent wrench ever to wreak havoc on their gut.  This was soon seen as a fictionalized account of the slimiest side of society ever; a story of a simple man, Krishnaswamy (essayed by Kamal), whose journey starts off in a beautiful Camelot, only to take twists and turns into the ugliest lanes of society.  The journey did end with a ray of hope back in that village where the story originated.  But by then, the viewer felt bare minimum consolation. 

Over the past two decades, I have watched “Mahanadhi” umpteen times, rarely experiencing anything less than an emotionally draining experience.  But a couple of months ago, I revisited parts of the movie because I was writing an article on my favorite ‘smaller’ scenes in Tamil cinema.  The Kamal – SN Lakshmi interactions had always moved me deeply.  So, for that article, I recounted the early morning sequence after Kamal realizes the error of his ways, in trusting a woman with questionable values.  As I watched more of the movie, a thought crystallized in my mind.  That “Mahanadhi” was not just a tale of the darker side of our society.  It seemed, in equal measure, a story of hope, humanity, empathy and above all, the responsibility that we have towards fellow human beings.  In short, Anbe Sivam!  Let me try and illustrate, with a few examples.

The friend’s remarks:  One of the events that sets the story into motion is Kamal’s well-to-do friend visiting his house.  As Kamal sees the sophistication evident in his friend’s kids (who are settled in London), he starts to think of a better future for his family beyond the idyll of his village.  This is depicted in a lovely scene when Kamal’s friend takes leave of him and Kamal’s son asks him for a similarly expensive car.  I found the writing to be exquisite here.  Especially for how Kamal’s friend treats him in a casual but not condescending manner, especially in the way he apologizes for an insensitive remark on Kamal’s wife who had died young. 

Watch from 2:28 – 5:30:

SN Lakshmi’s characterization: “Mahanadhi” has to be the movie with the loveliest portrayal of a mother-in-law character, played by the great SN Lakshmi.  Kamal’s scenes with the seasoned veteran are a joy to behold.  Be it in the way he addresses her as ‘Amma,’ or in the way she requests him – a widower- to get remarried, it is a delightfully understated relationship that was brought to life by the acting and the writing. (Kamal wrote the story and screenplay, while he co-wrote the dialogues with Ra Ki Rangarajan.)  Watch this scene where SN Lakshmi teases him playfully, owing to his eagerness to see Sukanya’s photograph.  Goodness.  Pure and simple goodness.

Watch from 1:30 – 3:06:

Another scene where the Kamal – SN Lakshmi relationship comes to the fore is the delicate, moving sequence when the family visits Kamal in jail after his daughter has come of age.  Amidst all the sadness that pervades the scene are two touching moments.  One where SN Lakshmi says, “Naan thirupathi-ku mottai podartha vendiruken maaple…”  and the other where she apologizes for renting out the house.

Watch from 0:27 – 2:23:

“Naan Veezhvaen Endru Ninaithayo?”: Fans of K Balachander will realize that the Bharathiyar poem cited in a perfectly situational manner in “Mahanadhi” was probably Kamal’s homage to his mentor, given KB's fondness for Bharathiyar.  The timing of the poem’s inclusion here is as perfect as it is thought provoking.  As I had mentioned earlier, one of those hidden-in-plain-sight elements of “Mahanadhi” that I finally started to see was the emphasis on the responsibility that we have towards fellow members of the society.  In this context, the Bharathiyar poem here is like a whiplash, with the Kamal character finding much-needed inspiration at a key moment in his life where he has to bear the one-two punch of societal evil and quirk of fate, without falling down.  Who better than Bharathiyar to urge him to not be felled?  (As an aside, this poem is brought back in an equally appropriate manner in the climactic sequence at the hotel terrace.)

Watch from the start until the 33-sec point:

 

The kindness of a stranger-exhibit I:   One of the oft-used tropes in thamizh cinema is the portrayal of rich people as monsters and underprivileged people as innocent and gullible.   Truth to be told, “Mahanadhi” does have sequences that utilize this trope.  But the writing is so splendid that the scenes play out in a completely unfussy manner, with the characters remaining just that – characters, not mouth pieces to make larger points.  The “Thalaivasal” Vijay scene is a case in point.  His character doesn’t even have a roof over him, yet offers protective cover to Kamal’s son (who had gotten lost earlier).    What could have been a cliched scene is lifted by some gentle humor and understated sentiments.  The scene has a perfect lead-in, with Kamal raising several tough questions about society, without knowing that the answer actually lay in humans having the most basic of values – kindness.  That he is pleasantly surprised minutes later, lends the late night scene extra poignancy.

Watch from 2:47 of clip 28 till the end of clip 29:

The kindness of a stranger-exhibit II:  Discerning movie goers will probably never forget the prostitution house sequence where Kamal rescues his daughter.  It is one of the most deeply affecting sequences ever to find its way to screen.  But when I watched this scene recently, I noticed a subtext here that I had not realized was there.  That, to ensure that humanness doesn’t become a rare commodity, we ought to be looking out for those that need to be given a lifeline or a lending hand.  And, in this sequence, the lady that pays the pimp Rs. 5000 to let go of Kamal’s daughter is that angel that rescues Kamal.  Savor that irony for a second.  She herself is in a prostitution house and yet, feels the need to help a father in distress.  This has to be Kamal’s most unheroic moment ever.  Which is why his acting is all the more remarkable.  This scene has an utterly poignant end where her daughter applies sindoor on the forehead of Kamal’s daughter.  (Actually, one overlooked aspect of “Mahanadhi” is the progressive nature of the movie.  In the world of thamizh cinema that can, sometimes, be very regressive in its approach to its women characters, this movie ends with Kamal's daughter, a victim of prostitution, being happily married to the son of the jailor, played by Rajesh.)  

Watch from 4:06:

As I sit back and reflect on this movie, I am reminded of Parthiban’s lovely line, “Innoruthar irukum varai yaarume anaadhai alla.”  The way I look at it, we sometimes have to be that “innoruthar.” And, I must thank Kamal and his “Mahanadhi” for making me think of what I owe my fellow human beings. From up above, both Bharathiyar and K Balachander would be smiling with pride as they think of what Kamal accomplished with "Mahanadhi."  That, in itself, is as good a birthday blessing as Kamal could possibly get!

***

Acknowledgment: Sincere Thanks to Anu Warrier for letting me adopt her style of recounting impactful moments from her favorite movies.  A wonderful writer, she blogs at http://anuradhawarrier.blogspot.com/