A Poet Extraordinaire

Some people eat to live. Whatever comes their way, they would eat, mindful of the calories and ensuring their nutritional values. Others live to eat. They do not mind toiling in the blazing sun or braving the heavy traffic to savour his prized street food, flaunting it in his social media page and insisting that his choice of food is to die for.

While some would hum to a tune, listen to it for a while, then forget about it altogether. Then it would be another song and another obsession. Some of us would dissect and analyse its lyrics, musical composition, ragaa, and taala just for the kick of it.

Pandi Durai is one such character. Malaysians first knew him as a Tamil newscaster on Malaysian TV. He was later heard on RTM Channel 6 radio at noon on Sundays, discussing Tamil culture and language through Tamil cinema songs. It came to be quite a hit among Tamil language connoisseurs. He later organised annual conferences to appreciate the compositions of Poet Kannadasan in Tamil cinema. Kannadasan can easily be crowned as the most creative and erudite composer of Tamil. His knowledge of Tamil grammar, vocabulary, and poetry is beyond compare. His ability to pen beautiful, poetic lyrics filled with wordplay and smart innuendoes is undoubtedly genius. 

Juggling between his job as an advocate in the Malaysian Courts, his passion for the Tamil Language and his keen interest in Tamil cinema songs of the yesteryears, he started this function to appreciate the lyrical genius of Poet Kannadasan's songs. These events have been held annually for some time now. I recently attended one such event in a packed auditorium in Kuala Lumpur. Equipped with an excellent sound system, a live band, and three excellent singers and musicians, the function lasted close to five hours on a Sunday afternoon, bringing joy and contentment to people who appreciated the Tamil language and culture, as well as the hidden messages behind Kannadasan's evergreen compositions.

Amidst the song renditions, Paandi Durai interjected with his understanding of what Kanndasan was trying to say in his songs. He went on to unveil some of the cryptic messages Kanadasan may have intended to convey. There were also some innocent-sounding songs that, if decoded, may be X-rated and not suitable for a general audience. Yet, kids of the 60s and 70s were happily singing them away without an iota of clue of their lewd messages that a sex-craved lover would signal to his equally receptive partner.  

Like that, Paandi went on analysing a couple of songs under the categories of love, social message, philosophy and devotion. All in all, it was an evening that left its audience in a state of literary inebriation. They returned to the real world with the comfort that their ancient language has stood another generation of assault from other lingua francas of the world. 

One particular song that intrigued me that evening, that I have been listening to throughout my life without knowing its deeper meanings, was 'Paarthen Sirithen' (பார்த்தேன் சிரித்தேன்) from the 1965 movie 'Veera Abhimanyu' (வீர அபிமன்யு). The film revolves around the title character, Abhimanyu, Arjuna's son, the teenage warrior extraordinaire of the Kurushtera. When the director summoned Kannadasan to pen a sweet love song for Abhimanyu and his on-screen love interest. Kanadasan decided to be cheeky and composed a love song with the word 'then' mentioned 65 times. 'Then' in Tamil means honey. In it, he used 'then' as honey, the essence in the lover's beauty, the joy of their love, the passion of their union and the ecstasy of their passion. Many things are left to the listeners, but imagination sometimes has no limits. 'Then' is also used as an adverb. Through the programme, I also discovered that the word 'malai' can mean 'stunned' as well as 'mountain'. The poet cleverly uses this wordplay in a verse; the honey from the mountain, she is stunned. 

பார்த்தேன் சிரித்தேன் பக்கத்தில் அழைத்தேன்

அன்று உனைத் தேன் என நான் நினைத்தேன்

அந்த மலைத் தேன் இதுவென மலைத்தேன்

பார்த்தேன் சிரித்தேன் பக்கத்தில் அழைத்தேன்

உனைத் தேன் என நான் நினைத்தேன்

அந்த மலைத் தேன் இதுவென மலைத்தேன்

பார்த்தேன் சிரித்தேன் பக்கம் வர துடித்தேன்

அன்று உனைத் தேன் என நான் நினைத்தேன்

அந்த மலைத் தேன் இவரென மலைத்தேன்

பார்த்தேன் சிரித்தேன் பக்கம் வர துடித்தேன்

உனைத் தேன் என நான் நினைத்தேன்

அந்த மலைத் தேன் இவரென மலைத்தேன்

கொடித் தேன் இனியங்கள் குடித்தேன் என

ஒரு படித் தேன் பார்வையில் குடித்தேன்

கொடித் தேன் இனியங்கள் குடித்தேன் என

ஒரு படித் தேன் பார்வையில் குடித்தேன்

துளித் தேன் சிந்தாமல் களித்தேன்

ஒரு துளித் தேன் சிந்தாமல் களித்தேன்

கைகளில் அணைத்தேன் அழகினை இரசித்தேன்

பார்த்தேன் சிரித்தேன் பக்கம் வர துடித்தேன்

உனை தேன் என நான் நினைத்தேன்

அந்த மலை தேன் இவரென மலைத்தேன்

மலர்த் தேன் போல் நானும் மலர்ந்தேன்

உனக்கென வளர்ந்தேன் பருவத்தில் மணந்தேன்

மலர்த் தேன் போல் நானும் மலர்ந்தேன்

உனக்கென வளர்ந்தேன் பருவத்தில் மணந்தேன்

எடுத்தேன் கொடுத்தேன் சுவைத்தேன்

எடுத்தேன் கொடுத்தேன் சுவைத்தேன்

இனித் தேன் இல்லாதபடி கதை முடித்தேன்

பார்த்தேன் சிரித்தேன் பக்கத்தில் அழைத்தேன்

உனைத் தேன் என நான் நினைத்தேன்

அந்த மலைத் தேன் இதுவென மலைத்தேன்

நிலவுக்கு நிலவு சுகம் பெற நினைந்தேன்

உலகத்தை நான் இங்கு மறந்தேன்

நிலவுக்கு நிலவு சுகம் பெற நினைந்தேன்

உலகத்தை நான் இங்கு மறந்தேன்

உலகத்தை மறந்தேன் உறக்கத்தை மறந்தேன்

உன்னுடன் நான் ஒன்று கலந்தேன்

பார்த்தேன் சிரித்தேன் பக்கம் வர துடித்தேன்

உனை தேன் என நான் நினைத்தேன்

அந்த மலைத் தேன் இவரென மலைத்தேன்

It was a time when personal intentions could not be expressed explicitly. Private desires were often spoken in double-speak, hoping that the intended recipient would get the hint. Kannadasan's song lyrics have always been hailed as poetic, revolutionary and of high literary value. His wordplay in Tamil and additions of scriptural teachings are beyond the imagination of an average man.

Many of Kannadasan's songs and poems end with rhythmic cadences. It is said that when a director repeatedly harassed him to write a song by May, he did so. He cooked up a song ending with 'mei' at every verse (அன்பு நடமாடும் கலைக் கூடமே - Anbu Nadamadum kalaikudame in Avanthaan Manithan, 1975 movie).

Kannadasan can also be cheeky at times. Once, his musical director, MS Viswanathan, did not turn up on time for a composition session. MSV had overslept after a late session. Annoyed, Kannadasan wrote something to mean 'why does he care, he is sleeping. I am the person who will be caught!' Somehow, it was appropriate for the scene they were composing. It became a hit without anybody realising the hidden message. (அவனுக்கென்ன தூங்கிவிட்டான் - Avanukku Enna, Thungivittaan in Periya Idathu Penn, 1963)

The most bizarre story about Kannadasan's ingenuity is supposed to be seen in 1961 Paava Manipu. A Muslim family adopted a Hindu boy. He grew up as a devout Muslim man and is active in religious and charity work. He was seen taking part in an Islamic procession singing praises of Allah. This song, composed by Kannadasan, has every verse ending with 'Om'. This was the poet's subtle way of showing that this Muslim man has Hindu roots. Nobody knew till many years later. Imagine an Islamic song with ‘Om’, the divine Hindu sound, at every verse. Integration or what?

The event witnessed a tear-evoking moment when the audience was informed that Kanadasan’s son, Annadorai, was in attendance. He was later honoured in the typical Tamilian way, with a silk shawl and a garland. 

A Sunday afternoon well spent. 

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.

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Money can buy justice, or at least freedom!

Trial by Fire (2023, Miniseries)
Netflix

A management professor once told a joke about the Indian justice system. An 80-year-old man appeared for a molestation charge. After looking at the charge sheet, the judge queried, "you are accused of molesting a 16-year-old girl. Why? At this age..." The octagenarian replied, "Sir, I was also 16 when it happened!"

That is how long it takes the cogwheel of justice moves. It is not an Indian problem but a worldwide phenomenon. Part of the law school syllabus must be a paper on creative ways to dodge a trial and get away with it.

People enter a movie hall thinking they will be transported to a world of make-believe and forget real life's stresses for the next two hours or so. What audience who flocked to Uphaar cinema hall in Delhi on June 13th 1997, was far from it. They ended up struggling to stay alive when a transformer exploded. 59 people succumbed to smoke inhalation.

The general public patronises various public venues thinking that the licensing bodies and the enforcement units will do their part in ensuring safety for the general public. Victims of the fire also realised the hard way that all the while, the public has been short-changed. The businesses had been trying to maximise profits over safety. The local councils have been sleeping on their jobs as well. The question begs whether they deliberately looked the other way after their palms were greased.

Illegal extensions, indiscriminately increasing seats, and the erection of private viewing terraces only blocked exits. The doors were locked and bolted to discourage illicit entrees into halls, trapping and smoking the desperately trapped patrons to their deaths.

When the push came to the shove, even emergency response teams failed them. Their snail-paced lethargic swing to action was much to desired at a time when the public is aware of their rights is embarrassing.

Even the long arm of the law and cogwheel of the system appears to be dragging its feet. After 25 years, the parents of two teenage fire victims, Neelam and Sekhar Krishnamoorthy, are yet to see justice to be meted out to the owners of the ill-fated cinema hall. They, together with other relatives who had lost their loved ones in the fire, had taken a civil suit against the owners for negligence. They allege that they had neglected the safety of their clients.

The owners, big shots in Delhi, who had a hand in all development projects, are said to be big philanthropists with big community projects under their belts that seem untouchable. They are able to engage big-wig lawyers, and even the judges appear to feed off their hands. Delays and postponements are norms. Even the lawyer assigned to the defence by the Central Bureau of Investigation looked disinterested and needed prodding and feeding of information to proceed with the case.

Neelam and Sekhar, who wrote a book about their whole ordeal, had embarked on extensive TV interviews highlighting fire safety in public places. In one of such interviews, Neelam, out of sheer frustration, had blurted that she should have just taken a gun, shot the cinema owners and claim insanity rather than having faith in the legal system that seem skewed to protect the rich and famous. The rest of the population can just be taken for a ride with the false pretence that justice will prevail. In reality, money can buy justice or at least freedom.

This work is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International. 

The face behind the mask!

Party (Hindi; 1984)
Director: Govind Nihalani

This film remains relevant even when we have ventured into the 21st century. The issues highlighted in this movie are not only confined to Indian society but can be applicable the world over. In fact, if activism and washing of dirty linen used to be restricted to exclusive cocktail parties those days, now it is party-time anytime. At the tip of the finger, with the clattering of keyboards, people can broadcast their views to the world.

Many things are going on in the lives of the attendees of this private party. The party was held to fete a celebrated playwright, Diwakar, who was recently conferred a national award. The host, Damayanthi, a widow, is rumoured to have an illicit relationship with Diwakar. Divakar's wife, Mohini, is a much younger person than him, an actor who stopped acting after marriage is a frustrated woman. Away from the limelight, she yearns for and reminisces about the centre of attraction she used to be. Others think she was not much of an actress anyway. This is made worse by her current state, a hopeless drunk.

Damayanthi's daughter is a frustrated unwed mother. She has her own issues with her determination not to conform to societal pressures. Amrit, a talented poet, is mentioned in absentia every now and then. He had apparently left the art scene to serve the underprivileged.

As the story unfolds, we, the viewers, are shown the behaviours of some members of that performing artists' circle. Social hypocrisy is apparent. They do not preach what they represent on stage -upholding Indian culture. The demeanour does not imply such. They, as actors, put up a front of having social consciousness, but in reality, it is just the next job that they worried about, not changing the world. Everyone put up a front to maintain an image. They do not say what they mean and certainly do not mean what they say. Portraying their involvement in activism for social justice is an exercise in public relations and image building to remind fans of their existence when they are not working. 

Many of them carry a load of psychological baggage. This popularity contest takes out a lot of juices from its members. Art seems to glorify body image. Time and biology are not kind to these. There is a constant need to reinvent themselves to stay relevant. 

An exciting offering from India's parallel cinema. It is not the usual fare that one associates with an Indian movie.

(P.S. While mainstream cinema seems to portray a seemingly fair view of an issue, in reality, the real message is cryptically hidden and woven to satisfy the demands of their financiers or powers-that-be.) 

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.

We flock together when the odds are against us.

Sometimes (Sila Samayanggil, Tamil, சில சமயங்கில்; 2018)
Netflix

We consider ourselves one step better than a stranger standing beside us. We gaze at them through our rose-tinted glasses when they are unaware and draw our own conclusions on their moral standards and codify them either 'good' or 'bad'.

All these changes immediately the moment there is an imminent danger or a potentially life-consuming event in the near future. Imagine a group of passengers in a cruise who are stranded in a terrible storm, have lost all radio contacts and just waiting for time to sink if help does not arrive in time. In that scenario, everybody put their prejudices aside, treat each other as equal and try to face the common enemy.

This is the scenario that the filmmakers are trying to create. Seven patients are waiting anxiously in a sparsely populated lobby for their HIV results. Each patient has their own story that brought them to get their blood tested - an ex-girlfriend dying from AIDS, a single contact with a sex worker, a rape victim, someone who helped a road traffic accident victim who later died with HIV and so on. I guess the storyteller decided to stay from a gay or a promiscuous character as he would probably be the focus of the story or take the suspense part out of guessing who would turn HIV+ later. In the midst of all these is a counter clerk at the hospital who has serious money issues. 

The seven patients could not stand the pressure of having to wait until the end of the day to get the results. They try to bribe the clerk to expedite the results, but all she could do was to tell that one of the seven of them got the bad news. The question is which one of them? That creates suspense that lasts throughout the later part of the film.

The whole movie takes place in a single set mostly, and in a single day. A slow-moving but intense drama with enough melodrama to satisfy the appetite of Tamil moviegoers. An AIDS awareness movie. 

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.