My Love

Aami - A few thoughts

"What can be taken away from Kamala Das's poem is this technique of poetry writing," my teacher said "To deeply observe and record the experiences of the five senses - sight,smell,hearing,taste and touch."

Upon hearing this, I looked once more at the page on my poetry textbook and visualized it as it was meant to be. Standing right there where she stood...seeing and feeling what she did... That was the first time I remember enjoying Poetry. Over the following years I read a few more of her works in English and I gradually decided that I was a fan of Kamala Das's soulful writing. 

I went to watch Aami with trepidation about director Kamal's selection of Manju Warrier for the role of Madhavi Kutty. Still, I readied myself to bear an open mind, curious to know what this biopic of the engimatic Kamala Surayya had in store for the audience. 

Her childhood years spent in the strict confines of a disciplined household in Calcutta, sweetly punctuated by vacations spent in her Grandmother's tharavadu, was quite often the theme of her writings. I felt that the film portrayed this phase quite well, house, grandmothers et al. The deep kohl of the eyes, the curly black hair, the dusky colour and the chocolate-melting sweet smile - altogether, little Kamala's casting was spot on. Among the servants, Valli was a perfect cast too though Janu and the other servants seemed a bit too plump and proudly devoid of the humble shoulder-slump one can observe among women who are used to permanently bending in the backbreaking housework involved in the maintenance of a large sprawling old tharavadu with endless "muttams" to sweep all day. Small flaws aside, Young Kamala's curious inquiries about caste and God kept me engaged.

Next came the 15 yr old Kamala who, purely with respect to looks, was the best cast with deep lovely black eyes and plump cheeks. However it did sadden me to see that the director used no discretion in shooting intimate scenes involving the uber masculine Murali Gopi and this child, her feet, her fingers and her face still not having lost its baby-ishness. I kept wondering if this itself would'nt qualify as child sexual abuse and recoiled in distaste!

Fully understanding and even agreeing with the requirement of such scenes to accurately portray (the trauma of) Kamala's early marriage,I feel, with current advancements in technology, Manju herself wouldn't have been a horrible fit here...at least for the purposes of sparing this child the obvious trauma of shooting these scenes with Murali.

And then came Manju Warrier - an actress of such great caliber and talent,  determined to give her sincere best to a role for which she was sadly and thoroughly miscast. 

As I remember Kamala Das (the name Kamala Surayya still not flowing easily on my lips), what I recollect first is the brilliant twinkle in her eyes...the twinkle that never lost shine and never failed to appear in a single photo or video of hers, notwithstanding the year or her age. Manju Warrier's eyes seemed dead mostly, her own charming spirit unable to break through the heavy makeup. At best they portrayed sadness and anger at appropriate times. But absolutely no breathtaking magnetism which was so characteristic of Kamala's eyes. 

Another peculiarity about Kamala that fans will recollect, would be her careless style of draping saris around her. As if vaguely aware of her carelessness but unwilling to shackle herself even with a practical pin, she used to tuck a portion of the sari into the neck of her blouse, temporarily and loosely holding it in place. Unfortunately Manju, having made a sad attempt to mimic this style, failed miserably, the tuck and the rest of the sari too neatly and modestly wrapped around her, never sensuously, absent mindedly, falling off her shoulder. The upright, straight forward, smart and modest Manju could not bend her disciplined bharatnatyam-trained body to portray unassuming sensuality which was the need of the hour. 

Another jarring difference was in the tone of the voice and the delivery of dialogues. Though Manju easily captured the rises and falls of Kamala's beautiful Thrissur accent, her voice was too sharp, her laughter too hard-cut to be anywhere close to Kamala's soft, sensual, mellifluous manner of speaking, words flowing smoothly into each other, the tone a strange enticing combination of directness, humour and irresistible charm. This extreme difference in styles disturbed me so greatly that at the end of 2-2.5 hrs, I decided that if Manju would laugh one more time, I would seriously consider walking out of the movie hall without much delay.

The hair and the makeup was completely inaccurate and highly disappointing considering current industry standards. Manju Warrier was greatly let down, in my opinion, by her movie crew.

Tovino made frequent appearances if only for the purpose of constantly rendering sickly sweet smiles and burly shoulders to cry on. I am quite glad that Prithviraj's dates clashed and he did not have time to act this quite ineptly written role that was a far cry from Madhavi Kutty's Krishna.  

Murali Gopi did a good job as usual, perfectly fitting the bill as a typical Malayalee husband, slowly transforming from an inconsiderate and perverted man to a quiet pillar of support and protection to the ageing Kamala Das.

I did like Anoop Menon's flawless portrayal as the late influence and attraction in Kamala Das' life - the gentle breeze that creates ripples in the placid lake that is her old age, causing yet another turn in the course of her life, this time with respect to her religion itself.

Overall, the movie viewer is at the risk of walking out with this conclusion - Kamala Das was a woman of beautiful words and many vagaries which she justified under the name of romance and naivete. She was probably even a narcissist who so greatly fell for the attentions of her admirers, that it resulted in foolish acts such as standing for elections and even converting religions at almost the fag end of her life. She failed repeatedly and consistently, finally in life itself - her epitaph unequivocally admitting that she knew not where she had gone wrong. I do feel as I walk dejectedly out of the movie hall that the makers of Aami possibly loved her... but surely never respected her. This movie is not a tribute to the memory of Kamala Das...her magnetic, bold but soft allure is still left lying in the grave with her, remembered warmly only in the minds of her admirers. 

The Nature of Criticism

Part of a discussion between a professor and a student of literature on Indian history and arts. The subject of the discussion was the story of Kacha and Devayani. It is the part on criticism that interests me.

Student : Professor, you mean to say all criticism is objective ? Professor : All criticism on historical literature is objective. The moment it becomes subjective it ceases to be authentic.It ceases to be a criticism on history.

Stud : But ... doesnt this mean that the poet who has recorded history can show no emotion, can express none of his feelings in his words?(The professor takes a deliberate reflective pause.Then resumes...)

Prof: This is almost a subject of its own.This gives rise to so many ideological questions.What is the relationship between art and science? Is criticism(vimarshanam) art or science?If it is a science what type of science is it? Is criticism a form of knowledge? Is criticism always objective or is it a form of rasaanubhuthi? The answer is then,that there are types of criticism.As there are types of science.

As you read a piece of literature, when you observe the dialogue,the ithivritham, the direction of the play,the trail of the plot,the characters and their attire, the settings and their quality, you are analyzing the play with respect to some set norms.It then becomes Normative Science.

But then you can also observe the beauty of the play.You can observe the emotion that you feel while viewing the play. You can analyze the poet and his work. You can see if the emotion that the poet wills his characters to possess has come through to the audience.In other words you can analyze yourself to understand if you have felt what the poet wanted you to feel...

The memory of a fragrance...

How do you describe a smell
Hidden in a twenty year old memory?

You think of tinkling anklets on small feet
running through dark warm wooden corridors
on a cool red oxide floor

Running in answer to the call for tea
and reaching to find sweet pleasure
in little triangular dumplings
enclosed in this leaf you threw aside without a thought

But not before getting a strong whiff
of this elusive aroma

This memory that rested on a delicate thread
now lays heavy on your palm too
Spicy and deep ,It can wake you up from sleep
It cannot be mistaken for any other
This smell of the Vazhana leaf.

Thondimuthalum Driksakshiyum

I would very much like to say that Thondimuthalum Driksakshiyum marks the beginning of a new genre of film making- because that's what it feels like when I walk out of the theatre after having watched this movie. But this quality of films has been around for a while now. Immersive, real, subtle, ugly and beautiful at the same time. Everything that life is in reality - no farce, no makeup, no drama except what real life provides. 

This movie defines what it means to be a human being. The whole gamut as they say - from the cheap, lying, conniving yet humane thief to the desperate, anxious, ordinary common man whose hidden hero emerges at the time of crisis. Thank God we are almost out of the era of the strong,capable,good looking "aadarshapurushan" of a hero who also sings and dances in impeccable style and the despicably bad villain with his trademark laugh!

Every actor in the movie delivered his/her role exceptionally well, genuinely enrolling the audience into their private story with ease, no matter how small their role was. What enabled these ordinary humans to become so extraordinary in their work? We have seen some of these actors delivering run-of-the-mill performances in the past. 

There is only one answer. The director Dileesh Pothan seems to have spent time and care on each person, drawing their talent out gently with the help of an extraordinary script and allowing them to use easy, flowing, natural language and mannerisms. Whatever his technique is, it works beautifully. One might even be justified in believing that such direction is a result of his deep insight into the human mind and its workings.  

Suraj has touched our hearts yet again and reminded us all what a fine actor he is. We feel deeply along with him and we worry along with him. We feel his stubborn desperation in his unwillingness to let go of his crocodile grip on the thief. We feel his soft, quiet love for his wife. 

The nuances of a love marriage are touched upon so realistically... his light admonition of his wife in one scene is reminiscent of an old era where husbands used to still  reprimand their wives using only the softest of words! One remembers an old "Maashe...Teachere" chemistry. Of course there is nothing old worldly about the wife's response. She is confident, strong and passionate along with being very aware and vocal about her rights. This is where the grace and the uniqueness of their relationship comes into play.  

Sreeja(Nimisha Sajayan) is definitely a one-in-a-million character. A thorny rose bush in the desert. An ordinary face with completely un-ordinary sharp,fierce eyes. Her easily awoken fury and outrage ...her final relief...are all palpable and moving.There just couldn't have been anybody more perfect than her for this role. 

In fact that is how every role appeared - perfectly moulded for each person who chose to act in this movie. Again the credit undoubtedly goes to the amazing director, for, it appears that it is not the role that was moulded to the person, it was that the person was made to live and feel the character and their life was captured in just the right angle for the sake of the movie. Just think about each policeman portrayed in the movie - we see real human beings having real conversations and doing real everyday actions. I loved each of these artiste's performances to the core!

Fahadh. This man that steals the show no matter how lowly and unrespectable his character is. He did it again. The first sight that the director provides us of him are the brown eyes between the arms resting on the support of the bus seats. His long delicate fingers wrap themselves around Sreeja’s chain with painstaking patience. This was one of the best,most perfect scenes of the movie for me. 

The second scene was the one just before the interval...the one with Fahadh’s smile.The scene that unravels the whole mystery- the one that upholds his motto - never give up till the last minute. 

With just these two scenes, Fahadh steals the show without much ado. In fact he nails almost every scene with such finesse that watching the movie becomes a truly enjoyable affair. It becomes an experience to relish and absorb into your mind and even after it is over, his smile comes back to haunt you.  

If one had to nitpick, we can find a couple of scenes in the movie where Fahadh is just unable to shake off his class.His delicate, fair, almost childish fingers and toes, his rare well bred expressions that escape unknowingly out of him, all belie his inborn sophistication which is tough to hide, even with a heavy dose of acting talent. 

For example, there is a scene of struggle between Suraj and Fahadh in a canal. Fahadh closes his eyes and purses his lips with quiet control,mustering strength to push the stubborn Suraj away. One catches a glimpse of Fahadh's real character...maybe he is even an introvert who would handled a struggle in real life with the same dignity. But it is tough to imagine a thief do this. His eyes would be large with panic and his survival instinct would make him kick and flail. Fahadh is just not able to shake away his culture in this one scene. One remembers Mammootty and Mohanlal portraying roles so far from their own natures, never ever letting their own characters seep in.

It is of course this class that makes him perfect for roles like Diamond Necklace - the role of a spoilt brat doctor. But other than these couple of scenes, he eases into his role smoother than a hand in a glove...no jarring notes or sharp edges.

With an undercurrent of subtle humour throughout, this movie can easily be watched multiple times. It can  even be savoured differently each time, much like a Marquez book. 

Brown Eyes

The first thing I noticed about him were his eyes.

I’v never seen eyes like that before. The rest of his tiny 1.5 feet body disappeared behind those huge brown irises set on perfect almond shaped eyes.

He looked at me with fully open eyes so uncharacteristic for a new born. So quiet he was, drinking every new sight, sound and smell in of his new world. There were no tears or fears in his eyes, only curiosity; no wail in his mouth, only silent observation. His eyes looked like he took me all in. I remember that I couldn’t bear the sight of his eyes, I was overwhelmed with emotion and the first thing I said was that I did not want to see him. Because I wanted to see him more than I have wanted anything else in the world and I just did not know how to deal with that want.

It should be only me that saw him and I was so fiercely jealous of all the fawning hugs and everybody drinking his tiny body in with their own eyes before he reached me. I couldn’t get up, my wretched paralyzed Cesarean sectioned body. I couldn’t move a muscle – because the anesthetics hadn’t worn out or because my mind was numbed by my overwhelming emotions I do not know. I pouted in my mind and teared up when my mother, aunt, cousins - everybody loomed over him while bringing him to me...denying me his sight for a few seconds longer. I was cross with everybody…and my drug addled mind had completely forgotten the moment when the doctor had shown him to me as soon as he was born. So I thought that all my relatives were getting a chance to see him before I myself did.

He finally reached me and I was transfixed. I would have remained so if I had not lost control and started crying. 

The dark days of postpartum depression soon followed and I took more and more solace from his tiny eyes. Here was one person whom I could look at unabashedly and admire fully without being questioned. Eyes with no judgement – eyes full of love. During his first few days in this world, sleep became a distant impossible daydream and night and day became one fluid continuous unending vortex.

I would sink into his eyes asking a thousand questions to this little creature who knew nothing but whose eyes were those of an old saint who had centuries of knowledge and wisdom at his disposal. And then like long awaited life giving rain drops on a desert, I would occasionally get the softest caress from his tiny fingers. This small action would recharge the worn down batteries of my heart and would give me so much courage, happiness and hope.

2.5 years have gone by. Now there are several more shades to the expression in his eyes – naughtiness, petulance, anger, displeasure, pain and most of the time, imitations of our own expressions.

But when I wake up at night and I find him in close proximity, sometimes even on top of my chest, I see that he is up too… and in the darkness I see his eyes gleam, looking deep into mine. The same look of wisdom and quiet observation and all through the day when I am far away from him, those eyes keep peeping up at me in my mind.. without warning or invitation…looking knowingly at me…giving me courage to see the day through in the knowledge that those eyes wait for me at home, full of nothing but love and acceptance of all the imperfection that is me.