At 100, MGR is a phenomenon that still sells

‘Acham enbathu madamaiyada, anjamai dravidar udamaiyada’ is the title song of the 1960 MGR movie Mannadhi mannan. It translates to ‘Cowardice is foolishness. Be like Dravidians, who are defined by their courageous acts.’

The song penned by Kannadasan is quite special, for it defines the characteristics of Dravidian men and in turn personified the iconic character. It is no wonder, the songs is played repeatedly on MGR’s birthday, January 17.

There is a line in the song,

‘Vaalthavar kodi maraindavar kodi, makkal manathil nirpavar yaar

Maaperum veera maanam kaapor, sarithiram thanile nirkinjar’

It means ‘So many people are born and die every day. But only few remain in people’s heart. It is he who is the greatest warrior, who protects the pride of his people, becomes a legend and lives forever in people’s heart.’

For some reason, it seemed to suit MG Ramachandran, fondly called MGR by his fans and ardent followers. Not that he was any warrior, but he did become a legend and managed to entice people when he was alive and even three decades after his death in 1987.

Born as  Marudur Gopalan Ramachandran in Kandy, Sri Lanka on January 17, 1917, MGR was from a humble background. His father died when he was young and his mother worked to her bones to bring him up. That probably explains his portrayal of loving son in most of his movies. He joined a drama troupe and later gained entry into movies in 1936 through the movie Sathi Leelavathi, where he played a small role. His major breakthrough came from the 1950 movie Malai kallan, which was his first commercial hit as a hero. The major turning point in his life was in 1958, when he directed and produced the movie Nadodi mannan, where he played the role of a prince and pauper at the cost of his entire fortune. It was the biggest hit of that year and first film to cross 200 days in 40 theatres. For MGR there is was no turning back since then and was one of the most sought after of those times.

There was none at that time who could equal his popularity. His charisma made him possible to enter into politics and he became the actor-turned-Chief Minister. There are thousands who still stand by the party he started All India Anna Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam (AIADMK) and the two-leaf symbol, only because it was an identity he created. He had many names - Puratchi Thalaivar, Makkal Thilakam, Ponmana Chemmal, Kodai Vallal, Vasual

Chakravarthy.

People who remember his death would tell tales about the crowd then Madras attracted on December 24, 1987. There was chaos as lakhs from all over Tamil Nadu came to pay their last respects to MGR. The city mourned their favourite leaders death a week. My dad would remember the day of the funeral as if it happened only yesterday. “It was one of the worst times for all fans and also the State,” he told me. I’m sure this was the sentiment of most of MGR fans.

But it always made me wonder. How can a mere actor gain so much popularity that he was able to rule over thousands of people for over five decades. I went to see the digitised version of his super hit movie Ayirathil oruvan in theatre when it was released in 2014. When latest movies run out of theatres in few days, Aayirathil oruvan ran houseful for weeks.

Why is it that he could still sell?

I asked my dad, one of the biggest MGR fans I have known. His answer was simple, he was a hero even off-screen. “He is a living legend,” he said. So I asked, what is about MGR that attracted him. “I do not know. All I need is to see his face,” he always replied. I love the way my father’s eyes shine when he talks about MGR. I could adulation, respect and something more from the tone and gestures of my father. It is the same reaction I get whenever I talk to MGR fans. Be it an auto-driver, an IT professional, a clerk or farmer. And this something more is what makes him special. It does not matter if the movie is crappy or great, all the movie needs is MGR’s face. That was how much he meant to fans.

When I watch his movies or listen to songs in the actor’s films, I feel that words used in lyrics and his character design are made in such a way to attract the attention of the masses. Just like the title song I had mentioned in the beginning, each of his songs were custom-made for MGR to convey his beliefs and probably his ideals. Without a doubt, he was successful. People believed in him blindly. They believed that he was their saviour. His film songs became a bible by which they led their lives, which I believe is not so bad. His songs most of the times carried pretty deep meaning and are thought provoking.

My dad has a favourite. It is ‘dharmam thalai kaakum, thaka samayathil uyir kaakum’. It means when you help people in need, it will one day save their lives. It is a rule by which my father has lived his life. “It has saved me so far. I believe it will continue to save me,” he would always say. As for m, other than Acham enpathu madamaiyada my favourite has been ‘Kan pona pokile kaal pogalama, kaal pona pokkile manam pogalama. Manam pona pokkil manidan pogalama, manidan pona paathaiyai marandu pogalama.’

The crux of the song was: You should not give in to temptations. Choose the path the great ones followed. This is something you really can keep in mind.

The movies too have their own rules. They reflect on how the life of the poor and what a leader should do to improve them. If he did or did not as a leader is a totally different question, but it was one of the major themes of his movies. Be it Malaikallan, where he is a thief who helps his community. It may be Padagotti, where as a fisherman he helps his fellow fishermen. In case of Idhayakkani, he is a rich businessman who helps his subordinates. According to my father, who is my major source of information, his movie Nadodi mannan reflects his ideals the best. The song ‘Uzhaippathilla Uzhaipai’ reflects his beliefs on what a leader must do for his country. Apparently, on his first interview as a Chief Minister he told the same to the media on what his idea of a leader.

The masses superimposed the image of MGR with that of the image he projected in his movies. Using songs and movies to reach masses were probably intentional or maybe it was not. But his movies were one of the most important factors in him gaining political influence in the State. It followed even after his death, which is apparent from the rise of late Chief Minister J Jayalalithaa, his political heir.

But that alone would not have made him Tamil Nadu Chief Minister thrice. He was generous and strongly believed in the upliftment of poor. It cannot be forgotten that he was the one who revived the Kamarajar midday meal scheme in schools. There are many, including an auto-driver I met previously who was benefitted by that. Being generous by nature, he always makes it a point to help when asked for help.

My father recounted few personal instances of his friends and acquaintances. For instance, a boy in a village wrote a postcard to MGR seeking financial help and was responded by him every month for one year. If anybody feels hungry in movies he will immediately help. In real life too he used to extend such help. In one of the issues of Thuklaq, late Cho Ramaswamy wrote that a person keeping the vessel in the oven with water can go and get rice for cooking from MGR before the water boils.

He is not all perfect as he made out to be. Some say Tamil Nadu growth regressed during his time period and he was not a good leader. But there is none who can deny the cult politics he pioneered. If he ruled the silver screen with his charismatic presence, he created a cult worship in Tamil Nadu politics, which plagues the State even today.

MGR is without a doubt a legend who scripted his own history in twin worlds - politics and cinema and was successful in both.

Oh my, get out you nerves

I have been fidgeting all day. My heart is yet to settle in its usual rhythm even hours after the meeting. My legs were a jelly and I could hardly move about without support.

“There is nothing to be afraid of. Stop being nervous,” a voice said. How can I not? After all things like this do not happen every day, do they? 

I went about my duties at work half-dazed as if in a trance. I spoke twice the usual with a voice so loud, it made me wonder if it was really me who was talking. Probably it was a way to cover up my nerves that were forcing its way out. Truth to be told, I have a hard time reeling it in.

“We will leave Sunday night and should be back in two days,” another voice proposed.

“Will two days be enough? May be you should stay another day,” said someone else.I could hardly take the details in. I wished I could prolong the inevitable. 

But it does not seem like I could ever since I met my ortho surgeon today morning.

“Look, more you  prolong the surgery longer it is going to take to heal your knee,” my doctor’s voice said. “There is nothing to be afraid of. ACL reconstruction is only a minor procedure and you will be able to walk in no time,” he assured. “Your legs will no longer turn into a jelly,” he smirked.

“The name surgery alone is making you nervous. But do not worry people with worse injuries and older than you have undergone the surgery and are playing football now. Just relax and I will see you in two days,” he concluded. 

A good story

Ever since a long time ago, I have been reading manga aka Japanese comics. I remember vaguely watching an anime called City Hunter, which narrates the story of a hit man. I could catch only few episodes on TV, but liked it to the extent of watching entire series online. It was based on a manga that goes by the same name. At that time, when I graduated from watching anime to reading its source, the manga, I did not know that this habit would consume me. It probably was a beginning of my manga addiction that I have come to suffer in the recent times. 

In the beginning I limited myself to reading well-known ones like Bleach, Death Note or romances like Kaichou wa maid sama!. When I began to run out of all popular ones I started reading randomly from one of the many translation groups. I found many good ones, too many clichés and very few amazing stories, which I glad I did not miss like Shiki no Zenjitsu by Hozumi and Fukuyadou Honpo by Yuchi Yayomi.

The stories were by no means extraordinary but the way they were expressed was.

Few months ago, I attended a conference on patents and copyrights. While explaining about copyright act, the speaker, an elderly man in his early 40s, said it is not possible to have an original idea as the core of any art be it literature or cinema, is universal. “It is how an artist expresses that makes an unique. So that is why we have copyright for expression and not for an idea itself,” he clarified.

It made sense to me now. Of all manga I have read, (trust me I have read enough) these two stories stood out. Fukuyadou Honpo is a story about a 450-year-old family run confectionery shop in Kyoto. The owner is a single mother and has three daughters. The story revolves around the shop, three daughters and the city itself. It gives a glimpse into culture, quirks of Kyoto natives and how customs and tradition direct decisions for these shops that withstood the test of time. There were no twists, no surprises and no drama. Circumstances were never extreme like in more popular manga and romance was never excessive. It is an everyday story, which you and I experience, insignificant and uneventful yet when we look back memorable. That was what made this manga endearing.

It portrays clearly insecurities and complexes very common in a household when you are growing up with siblings, expectations imposed and conflicts that arise when you try to defy them, first love, heartbreak, and the pain you go through. All these emotions were expressed nonchalantly, mirroring reality. This was what I liked about it and made me fall in love with this particular story.

Another favourite, Shiki no Zenjitsu by Hozumi, is a collection of five short stories. It possessed me right from the first story. If you want me to tell you what the stories were about, again, the idea is pretty simple.  Most of the events take place in a single day and conversations between subjects who may be a brother sister duo or twins, constitutes the plot. But narratives in mere 30-40 pages held meanings deeper than manga that run into hundreds of chapters or ones that go on for decades. One or two stories resembled Latin American author Gabriel Garcia Marquez style of writing like how he makes perfect camouflage of surreal elements in real world. Others seemed to follow simple story-telling method of Ernest Hemingway and Marquez again in the way they choose to convey deeper meaning in a single sentence than a story worth a full page.

Though One Hundred Years of Solitude is Marquez’s masterpiece, my favourite was No One Writes to the Colonel. Though it is a short novel and covers only few years of the Colonel’s life, you will notice that the story in fact dates back to decades. I got similar feel from this particular short story collection. 

I have always wondered what makes a story great. Why some are more popular than the others? 
With millions of people reading it what is great for some is no good for many. Even so few manage to surpass those obstacles to outlive writers and transcend time. For me, it is the literature that relay stories with characters and sentiments that people relate to, that make them think and connect the dots, make the cut. Because these stories involve readers, make them part of the story rather than a mere observer.

If I look back on my favourite books, author never puts into words about what happens but leave enough hints to help readers ascertain what happened without their knowledge. It is a mark of a good writer. 
I found those qualities in this short story collection, one that left a huge impact even days after I read it.

Accidental boredom

New haircut. Check. New clothes. Check. Books. Check. Junk food. Check.

No, I’m not travelling anywhere nor am I embarking on a new career or a new job. Rather, my feeble attempt at cheering up as I lay immobilised after a two-wheeler accident exactly a week ago on a sunny Saturday morning on the way to work.

What happened exactly at the time of accident was a blur but what followed was not all unpleasant. You get to experience all the perks, like having bed coffee thrust at you as soon as you get up; food in your bed; a bowl to wash your hand; enough time to catch up with movies and series you missed when you were busy working (lets assume) without taking a guilt trip. There is always someone at your beck and all, though after a point of time it begins to bore you. 

At the end of a week, I also understood that accidents will make you realise a lot things. Like how your neighbour of three years has 10-year-old twins, a boy and a girl, studying in Class V and not siblings with an age gap of 3 years like you assumed; or how the lady residing in flat opposite to yours has met with similar accident and had to undergo a surgery and assures you: “I’m fine and dandy now. You are young; it will take no time for you to recover you see.”

Or it might be your maid who blames all autowallas, who in part was a reason for my unfortunate fall and subsequent injury, even for the scratch she sustained while trying to cross the road on the way to work. Many even suggesting that road are no longer safe for two-wheelers and it is time you got a Nano or an affordable car.

It is not just neighbours, relatives too owe us the pleasure of their visit and generous advice on how to drive in Chennai road and why driving fast is a strict no-no. 
It is a funny world, where you need an injury to socialise with people you otherwise rarely visit or talk.

During those boring hours, when friends provide you respite through chats and calls, you try to make sense of what happened and vow to yourself that you will utilise the well-deserved forced holiday to the fullest. The vow remains just that: a vow in thinking only. 

For a self-proclaimed procrastinator like me, it is impossible to make use of holidays to the fullest. It could be a stand full of long-winded classics I procured on a whim, most of them unread. My abandoned blog, which I had started more than two years ago and never spared a glance in the last one year, and trying to be active, like now, writing this blog post. 
I still do not wish to reclaim those lost territories and rather lose myself in pointless rom-coms and fiction that hardly make sense, an escape to the surreal. 

As I embark on my second week to recovery, where again I'm stuck to bed and given leeway to step out of my bed with a promise of exercise, I feel that though it might not be so great an experience it remains to be one I'm not sad to endure. 

Harry Potter and the Cursed Child is short, racy and predictable

I got up early this Sunday morning all excited. It did not take me long to get ready and charge in the shortest time possible. Harry Potter and the Cursed Child was releasing today. And for the first time I’m in a place where I can actually buy it on the day of its release, a dream I had and never realised until today.

So I paid Rs 900 and bought the book at 11.38 a.m. today. After causal chit chat and lunch, I was home. At 2 p.m. I started reading the book and did not dare take my eyes off from my hard bound until it was 5.30 p.m. when I was done.I don’t know what you call it, when you are at the end of a book and did not want it to end. As I turned every page, I hoped pages would increase. But of course it did not. It moved on, pretty fast, almost nostalgic with grown up Harry and all that.

Harry is the Head of Magical Law Enforcement, as you know married to Ginny, and has three kids – James, Albus Severus and Lily, with her. Hermione Granger is the Minster for Magic and has two kids – Rose and Hugo, with Ron Weasely. Draco Malfoy has a son, Scorpius who is lovable surprisingly and for me he was the real hero who moved the story along.

As the reports said the book is about Harry Potter and his second son Albus and how they confront the dark past that wouldn’t let them go. But plot per say is nothing new. You know how the story is going to flow and how it is going to end. But then again it was written for a play and though the story was detailed it was not very deep. 

It is a very fast read, took barely four hours to finish 300 odd pages. But it satisfies your curiosity about how your favourite characters have grown into. It might be a 40-year-old Harry who is still struggling with the dark past but trying his best he could to be a great dad. It could be Ron, as funny and lame as he could possibly be or Hermione as bossy and clever, as in the past. You even get to see Dumbledore in the photo frame.

It gives you a glimpse of everyone’s life and what they made themselves of after the Battle of Hogwarts. Something we all wanted to see for ourselves. I loved what they have become.

But at the end of it, when all ends well you just can help asking for more. What to say, we potter fans are greedy. 

To Harry, With Love

To Harry,

Harry Potter and I go way back. I met him when I was in Class 6 separated just by a television screen. He was short, rather docile, and bespectacled with hair that looked like it needed a trim. He looked ordinary. I was fascinated and I did not know why. It started then, my affair with a wizard on the magical ground of Hogwarts.

I loved him like only a 9- year- old could - innocent and oblivious but happy to just look at his face. It was a very nice face. If you had asked me if it was Daniel Radcliffe, the actor, or the character Harry I liked, I wouldn’t know. For me, Daniel was Harry.

As I grew older, the way I began to look at him changed. It was that of an adolescent, who is just beginning to understand and differentiate between a girl and a boy. I found him attractive. I had started to read earlier installments of books by then. I began to understand Harry, his quirks. I began to like him for his flaws, and they were many.

I was in Class 11, when fourth installment of the book, ‘Harry Potter and the Goblet of fire’ was made into a movie. The book featured a ball, where Harry mustered his courage to ask his crush Cho Chang for a dance. He was rejected of course. They were looking for Asians who would play the role of Parvathi Patil, his date for the dance and Cho Chang, his first love, in the book. I was split between which roles to play; regardless that there is no way I was going to be cast. It was a worry of a teenage girl at the clasp of love. My friends bore the brunt as I ranted non-stop until the casting was over. I did not stop brooding for a long time.

A year later, Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince was released. I forced my dad to get the book for me as my birthday gift. He did not refuse. I was in Class 12. Reading it was absolutely forbidden, for I had my final exams that would determine my future. But how can I not.

Back then, I would rather learn curses than do mathematics. I wanted to brew potions than do titration experiments in chemistry. I wanted to tame wild beasts and dragons than dissect cockroaches and frogs. I wanted to fly on a broom more than learn about rockets and its fuel efficiency.

Such was youth that keeps redefining the boundary for stupidity. As always stupidity wins and I finished the sixth book first before my subjects and of course it reflected on my final year scores. But I do not regret it.

I was stupid yes but you are allowed to be one when you are young. Adults have way too many consequences to face. I was stupid and happy just immersing myself in my fantasy with Harry and I’m happy I did so.

For, when I look back now I could laugh at myself and tell myself that I have grown and come a long way. I’m no longer a giddy adolescent I was back then. Nothing excites me as much. Precisely for those reasons, I cherish those times when I pretended to study when I was actually reading the book. I know now that these are the feelings that could only be felt then. Thank you Harry for those memories.

For me, Harry is one of the very few links to my past that connects all of me right from Class 6 till the time I was a Sophomore in college. While other links are either forgotten or faded away with time, Harry continues to remain through my fragmented memories and tattered books.

As Harry turns a year older tomorrow, all those memories come rushing and teleport me to early 2000s where I see a giggling, blushing girl in pigtails I hardly recognise now. It is a sense of nostalgia one feels when you go back to your roots. It is the same for me.

Now as someone inching towards her thirties, I still see the bespectacled boy with hair that looked like it needed a trim, but in a man’s frame and think, you have grown up to be a good man Harry. So have I.

With love, Swathi.

Kabali da – Rajini prevails…

Kabali, the overhyped ‘thalaivar’ movie we were all looking forward to and going great lengths to get first day tickets. Most of us were disappointed for we couldn’t manage to get our hands on tickets even if we were willing to pay Rs 700 at Kasi Theatre.

As July 22nd dawned with a note of disappointment, came the reviews that rated the movie from worst to average, blaming the director who couldn’t do justice to Rajini’s image and the aging star for losing his yesteryear charm. But when I finally got to watch the movie this Sunday, I realised reviews couldn’t be more wrong.

Rajini’s introduction more or less justified his larger than life presence, donning a grey suit and salt pepper hair, his style and charisma intact. The movie takes off like a regular Rajini flick but soon moves on a different tangent devoid of punch lines and duets with younger heroines, one not usually associated with a typical Rajini movie. That’s exactly what I liked about it. Rajini’s role on screen matched who he was, an aging star, but a star nevertheless commanding respect. 

Here, we got to see the vulnerable side of our favourite hero who loves his wife Kumudavalli and misses her deeply. You know at that moment he meets her again, he feels alive again. It was as if those decades they did not see each other disappeared. The film captured those tender moments between Kabali and Kumudavalli, that was nothing more than meeting of the eyes, so beautifully. The romance though not the main theme, was fulfilling and powerful. 

You would be a little disappointed if you were expecting the likes of Baasha or Padayapa. Could it have been taken in a better way or project Rajini in a better light? Probably. Could the movie have a better villain? May be. 
Yes, it is not a usual Rajini flick, but it is not the same Rajini either who can sing and romance like a 30-year-old when he is 60.  

But you could still immerse yourself in the movie, whistle as he makes his moves and clap as he prevails over his enemies.

For all those who comment how the bad movie is and the actor is senile, after all these years he is one of the very few stars who can still charm and draw people like no other. And it is this Rajinikanth that we love and will continue to.  

Darkness

Things often look different in the night, often revealing their true self, hence more beautiful than the day. Cloaked under the night sky at the dawn of a new day accompanied by whispers of rain and sound of lightening, I wished the time would cease; I wished tomorrow shall never come to pass.

The unfathomable night with its shallow darkness and sinister corners taunts me, moves me, attracts me and arouses me. The night, an embodiment of bottomless secrets with its mystic sky, has magic that binds and entices the dreamer in me. The night with many shades of grey, captivates the ignoble me more than a rainbow that adorns the gloomy summer sky.

Sprinkles of the night that stroked my skin were as gentle as an embrace and warmer than a night of passionate love making. It made want to become a part of the night, invisible during the day only to be encompassed in the darkness.

Dripping in the shower and laughing with the thunder under the moonless sky with no star in sight, I found myself embracing the darkness in me. The shadows of the past and regrets of the bygone days came alive engulfing me letting me relive those moments. Those precious moments of sadness, happiness that encumbers one during the day.

Sitting by the window sill, listening to song of thunder and the torch of lightening that illuminates the narrow bead of rain I wished the light away. 

Irudi Suttru, packs truck load of punches

Tamil movie Irudi Suttru aka the final round stars Maddy on screen after a long gap. The story revolves around a boxing coach and his pupil through whom he wants to realise his dream of winning World Boxing Championship. It is pretty much similar to Chak de India where Shah Rukh coached the Indian hockey team but with much less drama.

Prabhu, known for this ruthless training methods, due to personal vengeance of his yesteryear colleague was transferred to Chennai, where he finds potential in a fisherwoman Mathi. He persuades her to let him train her, polishes her and prepares her for the final stage – the ultimate championship boxing ring.

In the almost two hour movie from when he begins to train Mathi to the last round of the championship, it is a roller coaster ride of vacillating emotions, of disappointments and of perseverance. The movie was not just about winning; it was a portrayal of dedication a coach has over his sport, brutal coaching that belies kindness and a deep bond Prabhu shares with Mathi with a subtle hint of romance that was heartwarming.

Even as the movie ends, despite an end so clichéd it makes you smile.

As cheerful and gutsy the heroine is it was Maddy as Prabhu, the no-nonsense coach with disheveled hair, overgrown beard with a tinge of grey at the corners and taut muscles, who tugged audience along. Sure, it was not the Karthik we knew from Alaipayuthey who enchanted the audience with the smile of Prince Charming; rather it was an older and matured Prabhu, a rugged Heathcliff, who seduced the audience with a smile even more devastating making you fall in love with him all over again. 

A wanton life

My fingers wouldn’t move, my thoughts wouldn’t flow despite the overwhelming emotions only I can feel. I’m always searching, always looking for something that would help me live the way I want; the way I thought I should. What am I searching for? Is it love of a man who doesn’t exist; or was it the mere feeling of being in love – an inexplicable emotion that gives you power and strength; an anchor for my wandering soul. Who am I looking for? Is it a soul-mate, who exists only to incite the flames of lust that is under slumber; or is it a forbidden fruit that I desire that is sure to destroy my soul? Because of my flawed beliefs have I already lost sight of what is in the vicinity for the love of what is far beyond my grasp and could possibly never exist? Am I always going to live in the days of tomorrow at the cost of the present?

I know not anymore.

It makes me want to cry like a wild beast that is on the verge of dying; I want to howl like a storm that is raging to savage anything that block its way; I want to moan like a deer that just witnessed the death of its mate; I want to weep by the embers of my ebbing passion.

I could still feel the tremor only passion could ignite within my body. I could feel it in tremble of my fingers; haggard beat of my heart. I’m lost in a maze of my own frustrations, falling at every turn looking for a way to rediscover my lost passion. During the search many a moments I yearned to wander recklessly with abandon in the labyrinth of my mind’s creation, if only it would make me forget. If only it would make me forget the wanton life I’m dwelling within the confines of a dissipated shell of a human girl.