The Yellow Bird (Singapore, 2016) Director: K Rajendran
How does one make a genuinely Singaporean (or Malaysian) movie? What language does he use to make it look authentic? Just look at the ground level. Stand in the marketplace in the heart of town and listen to the murmur. One hears a potpourri of languages spoken by different tongues and in different accents. It must be a treasure trove for a person like Professor Higgins (of 'My Fair Lady') to do his fieldwork. Hence, quite rightly so, the filmmakers decided to utilise a hodgepodge of common languages spoken amongst the characters in the film to make it look believable.
One can say this is a Singaporean Tamil film as the protagonist is Tamil-speaking. Still, otherwise, there are Mandarin, English, Singlish and Hokkien spoken laced with a liberal dose of profanity in keeping with the company of the crowd that the main character is associating.
When Singapore is shown in any setting, the views that often pop up are the Merlion statue with the spraying of water from its mouth or the infinity pool atop Marina Bay Sands. Here, we have the chance to see the dimly-lit back lanes, shady characters and not the usual spick and span fare of Singapore that we are accustomed to.
The extremely slow-moving story may be a turn-off to those who find the prolonged pause between dialogues irritating and a stern expressionless facies of the main character a put-off. Still, many feel that these slow drags are essential to set the tone and emphasise the helpless situations that everyone is in.
Siva, a newly released convict for smuggling, is trying to reconnect with his estranged wife. His mother does not want to talk to him. She had rented out his room to Chinese immigrants. None of his friends wants to help him. Siva supports himself by playing the drums at a funeral band and as a helper in a coffee shop. He befriends an illegal Chinese immigrant who also works with the band. She is always short of cash as everyone seems to have cheated of her hard-earned money. So, she hires Siva as her bodyguard to venture out as a call girl. Even though not able to speak each other's language, the two build a relationship as Siva continues looking for his wife.
It is interesting to see that when the lower one spirals down the economic ladder, the more he has to scavenge it out with the marginalised part of society. The state forgets him, or rather, is shunned as specific societal requirements are not fulfilled. Not only they have to deal with monetary issues, interpersonal frictions, substance abuses and housing facilities all piles up his list of unsolved problems. To top it off, they need to scavenge it out with those fresh off the boat.
(P.S. Yellow Bird is a symbolism of joy and a positive outlook on life. Sadly, here, a yellow bird dies. Remember the 'Yellow Bird' song by Dicky Lee in the 70s? Now, it makes sense. It is not you think it is! It is actually an old Haitian poem written in 1893 titled 'Chouchone')
The question is this. What draws two souls together in a romantic bond and possibly in the union of matrimony? Is it physical attraction or the ability to see things through the same lens, have the same madness or perhaps share the same dream of how life ought to be?
There used to be a time, perhaps even now in certain circles, of these types of unions being arranged by elders. There are no unique qualities looked for by the involved parties. There is minimal interaction between involved parties, and the marriage is more of a contract to continue the circle of life. One takes what one gets and tries against all odds to hold the fort against time's uncertainties. Come what may, the union of the Gods stand the test of time; only to revoked by death.
Now, is it necessary for the uniting couple to be compatible? After all, it is a biological union for continuity of species of which Nature can make the natural selection. Society determines every offspring of these unions be accounted for and the responsibility of caring for them is cast in stone. Biology encourages the male species to sow their wild oats but the female to be stringent with gametes' choice in a competitive selection of the fittest. Unlike their counterparts in the animal kingdom, Man is expected to provide for his partner and kind.
Man has also put in another criterion to be locked in matrimony, compatibility.
The romantics in you want to believe that the highly acclaimed movie characters will have a happy ending. The logical mind, however, drills upon you this association is doomed from the word go. A barely educated young widow from a remote village coming to town to work as domestic help is no compatible match in hand for a US-educated architect/writer who has been cradled in luxury throughout his life. The widow may have a chest full of zest and big dreams to lift herself out of poverty with her bootstraps, in reality, unicorns cannot be pink and invisible at the same time.
Ashwin returns to his apartment, heartbroken, after leaving his bride at the altar after finding to be adulterous. Ratna, his helper, over time, tries to cheer him up by telling her miserable life as a curse with early widowhood and being the breadwinner for her family, even though they look at her as a burden.
The acting is so nuanced, filled with subtle body languages and unspoken dialogue. Despite being a simple story with an ending which is anybody's guess, it managed to maintain its viewers' attention till the end.
The ghost of one's social past will haunt him until and unless one uproots and starts life afresh away from the encumbrances of the web of societal mores and pressures. Alternatively, one can live a reclusive life, giving two hoots to people around him, come hell or high water!
Sorry We Missed You (2019) During the infancy of my career, many a time, being the most junior of the team, I usually ended up having to see poor patients who just made it to the clinic at closing time. I soon came to know that they were living far from civilisation, deep in rubber or palm oil estate. Coming to the hospital meant getting up at four in the morning, preparing breakfast for the school-going children and being able to get on the first 6 o'clock morning bus to town. Invariably, they would be delayed. The transport out to the main road would not turn up. Perhaps, the feeder bus would break down or the bus that they had to change left earlier. They would eventually reach the hospital close to noon. After getting an earful for not keeping to their time, they would have to seen by the junior most doctor of the team. The senior ones would have left the clinic for more pressing needs. Unable to make a definitive plan of medical treatment for them, these patients who would require most of the expertise from the medical team ended up discarded by the system. They would be given another appointment; the whole ritual needs to be repeated. On top of all these, as they are daily wage earners, absence from work meant the loss of a day's earning. I thought all these slave-like working conditions would end as the world changed. With globalisation, workers were promised working conditions and preservation of unassailable rights of the workers. Marx's dream of working for sustenance and having leisure time to enjoy the reason for their existence, they thought, would of fruition with the gig economy. They do a gig when and if they want. The workers would be their own boss. They work for themselves; not for the bosses or company. They do not work for a company but with the company. What the company failed to highlight were the fine prints, the exclusion clauses and the penalty they were to be imposed if specific rules are not followed. Fast forward, and workers realise that the whole economy is just a scam. The same old economic ideology is just re-packaged. The same plot of scheming the poor to feed the rich is in full force. The workers continue breaking their back until a new horizon emerges. Who knows what else would they promise the next time. Meanwhile, like Sisyphus, the unendowed have the find simple pleasures within their unending cycle of hardship, a flicker of hope, resolution, pain and the curse of repeating it all over again.
Still reeling with debts from the 2008 economic downturn, Ricky thought he found a sure way to end his financial woes. The promise of good returns as an independent despatch services provider, he felt his hard work was the only thing that separated him from economic independence. For that, however, he needed to purchase a pickup van. For its down payment, he had to sell off the family car in which, the wife, Abbie, a home care nurse moved around to meet her patients. Soon everyone realises that it is not all hunky-dory. Ricky has to spend long hours at work. Abbie finds it taxing to meet her demanding schedule. Their two teenage children are left to their devices. The parents are unable to meet up to their school and their children's emotional needs. Ricky's woes only accumulate. He has to pay damages for lost items which are not covered by insurance and to work despite his injuries after mugged. It looks like the dependence on others will spill over on to the next generation. Their dependency on their digital hand-held devices is not mere addiction. It has become their essential tools to do their school, learning, communication and more. The digital world is another platform that is manipulated by the economic giants to make people fall at the service providers' feet. This is yet another doublespeak and the dehumanising trap of the neoliberal economy. Instead of building an antifragile society that grows stronger with every stress that is hurled upon them, we will be left with a brittle one, needing support at the mere thought of pressure. Again, our electron microscopic friend, COVID-19 has shown us the fragility of the gig economy. Being locked down for two weeks may be excellent for family time and bonding, but neither bring in the cash nor pays the bills.
Dr Rama Subbiah Scholarship Fund Golden Jubilee Celebration (1967-2017)
Most of us who studied in the local universities are quite familiar with Dr Rama Subbiah Scholarship Fund which had been a boon to many underprivileged varsity students of Indian descent. Not many of us, however, know much about Dr Rama Subbiah and the genesis of this fund.
Dr Rama Subbiah (1933-1969) is first Malaysian Ph D holder in the field of Linguistics. Working as a lecturer in University Malaya and Chairman of NUPW-PPN Hostel Management Committee, he financed, out of his pocket, accommodation for TAR College Indian students who had to commute long distances on a bus from out of town to study their A-levels. That started in 1967.
From then on, the hostel students contributed their hostel security deposit money to start a scholarship fund. Many individuals later pledged small but regular contributions to this embryonic scholarship endowment which was initially named 'The Indian Students Scholarship Fund'. After the untimely demise of Dr Rama in a tragic motor vehicle accident, it was renamed 'Dr Rama Subbiah Scholarship Fund'.
The help via this fund reached out to many students of humble backgrounds. They, in turn, after reaping the benefit of this endowment, continued the trend. Beneficiaries were required to reimburse what they had received into a revolving fund once they started working. Over the years, the Board which manages this resource has increased their base capital through social fundraising activities.
It recently celebrated its Silver Jubilee, its fifty years of existence.
Two things that happened recently made my mind go a-wandering, yet again.
Credit: SCMP
#1. A friend, whom I have not met for some time now, appeared in my life during the course of my career. About twelve years previously, he became a widower after his thirty-something wife succumbed to the menace of the crab. Left to care for three young girls, ranging from ages of eight to twelve, he took it upon himself to be the sole provider of maternal and paternal love, all lumped to one. With his meagre income and a lot of helping hand from his extended family members, he forewent female intimacy and sacrificed simple pleasures of life to make parenting his sole purpose of existence. Fast forward twelve years later, the girls have managed to attain academic excellence. Each of them is pursuing careers by their own merit in local institutions respectively in medicine. Law and accountancy. It seems like poverty and melancholy never dragged them but instead propelled them forwards. They whipped fate to change their future.
#2. Another friend whom I had not met for 30-over years manifested himself out of the blues. Starting life in the humblest of circumstances, he had beat destiny to be a globe-trotting consultant of sorts. After realising that there is no place like home, he returned home to Malaysia.
After a guided tour of the house, he told my son that the study room was as big as his whole house, area wise, the home, he grew up as a child. He reiterated that the young generation does not have worry about the nitty gritty about surviving but instead can channel their energies towards reaching greater heights that were never dreamt by their elders. In their own ways, they had a head start in life.
"Litre of Light" - a simple initiative in the
Philippines to bring brightness to the poor with
just a plastic bottle filled with water.
More than half a century ago, as one of my uncles was trying to unshackle himself from the clutches of poverty through education, he had to appeal to a school headmaster for his kind office for a placement in his school. Being born to a rolling stone father who rolled from town to town without collecting any moss, he had no certificates of proof of his educational achievements. My uncle tried to plead his case by invoking his debilitated state of his economic affairs. The learned man told him, "Boy, poverty is no qualification but, in you I see the drive to succeed. That, no piece of paper can be a substitute!"
Necessity is the mother of all inventions, they say. True to that adage, the simplest of inventions usually from the most deprived of the society. Look at the ingenious ways things are used beyond their intended inventions by people in economically deprived areas of the world. (See picture).
Conversely, when there is abundance in a society, instead of reaching for greater heights, the denizens are lulled into boredom, lack of innovations and paradoxically melancholia of intangible things that seem ludicrous to their deprived counterparts in the land of barren!
P.S. Then there is another lady friend who grew up so poor that her family bonding time would include copying textbooks. They could not afford to buy textbooks so they would borrow the books from their affluent friends and the whole family would burn the midnight to copy the book in verbatim. Now she looks at those times and appreciates her family better.
The discourse started over an article about a poor Hindu man who tried to advise a Muslim man against urinating in the open in a public space. The ego-dented Muslim called his friends to give the Hindu a nice bashing that he would never forget. Well, he never had the chance to remember. He was beaten up in the plain view of the public who, sadly, not one person came to his help or did call the police. The poor man succumbed to his injuries. The incident escalated to a racial clash when the real issue is public apathy and the curse of being born poor. From that angle, the debate went on to whether being poor is one's own fault or it is due to a composite of factors. My friend insists that it is self-made. Everybody is given equal opportunities in life. People make wrong decisions again and again, and the end result is being stuck in the lowest rung of society. In this vast world, chances are there for our taking. Nothing happens by chance. We are who we are due to the decisions that we made in life. That is where I differed, in my opinion. No doubt decisions are ours to make, not everybody is endowed with the wisdom, willpower and intelligence to choose what is indeed best for him in the long run. Some do not have the foresight beyond that of a goldfish. Others are weak to persevere the hardship and throw in the towel easily. The tenacity to withstand a pressure cooker is the sum product of his genetic makeup and environmental factors. Poverty is a rut that traps one in a vicious cycle of malady, hopelessness and melancholia. Lack of parental guidance and supervision, lack of opportunities, lack of role models, lack of push factors and intrinsic desire for instant gratifications just perpetuates one to stay in the status quo. Poverty itself cuts down options. The need to bring the bacon draws both parents on back-breaking money earning spree at the expense of familial bonding and parental supervision. Economic deprivation draws them to less affluent neighbourhoods with less equipped educational facilities. Destitution reduces confidence. A large family demands sacrifices from all its members. In the name of compassion and blood bonding, the skin quivers and siblings have to give up privileges. Then there are social diseases, and the list goes on. The realisation to break-free usually comes in the form of inner awareness, a kind of Enlightenment from within one's self with a little help from good friends with the same wavelength and family guidance. Is there a guardian angel who paves the correct path for you or your astronomical coordinates that determine your lifeline?
This is the story of many societies. The urban dwellers, unable to keep up in the rat race, get left behind. Initially occupying the centre of the city, as their earning capacity declines or the opportunity dwindles, they get displaced. Slowly they abandon their urban dwelling to sojourn for something modest at its fringes. With further obstacles, they go further to the suburbs. In the best of times, they form the backbone of the workforce. As the economic pie gets smaller and the profit to the bosses takes a dip, they are replaced by economic migrants who would work for a song.
And the original urban dwellers would show their resentment to the migrants and the system they plunge further into hopelessness. The bourgeoisie blames the poor for taking it easy, for their decadence and not saving for a rainy day. The poor feels that it is their birthright to be cared for, after all, they contributed immensely to the progress of the country. The politicians try to be the nice one to all parties. They need the poors' votes and the wealthy's financial support. Does it all sound too familiar?
This problem was there in the post-WW2 Britain, and it is here in 21st century Malaysia. It is the familiar story of the marginalised.
This 1964 offering appeared as a TV drama on the BBC as a sort of a public service to announce to the general public about the urban poor and their desperate situation being pushed around like herds by the system which was ill-prepared to cater for their housing needs. The portrayal of Cathy by Carol White was so convincing that she was often stopped in the streets to be pushed money in the hand and friendly words of encouragement!
This show was shot and told in a documentary-neorealistic style with mostly outdoor shooting straying away from studio dramas which were norm those days.
A free-spirited easy going girl, Cathy, meets Reg, a crane driver or something of sorts. With the spring of youth and the spirit of optimism, they plunge into matrimony only to discover that life is not a bed of roses. Hardship rears its ugly head in various forms. Reg gets injured and loses his job. People look at children as God's gift to humankind and that there can be nothing more precious than own flesh, bone and DNA. So, Cathy and Reg receive the news of her pregnancy with open arms. She stops working. Then comes another baby and another. What can they do? It is just an act of love and of God through Man.
Their kind landlady dies, and her next of kins demand Cathy's arrears of rent. Soon they join the long list of the homeless. The queue for government housing facility is endless. They are shooed away like flies as they occupy caravans and empty spaces. Their children just grow like wildflowers, without necessary medical attention and educational needs. The relationship between adults is also not exemplary but go on by making the best of what they have and making themselves feeling contented.
Cathy and Reg lose a child in a fire. She eventually gets a temporary shelter for herself and the two kids, but her husband is not welcome. Slowly, the family breaks up. Reg rarely visits his family, Cathy loses her temporary accommodation and also her children to social services when they are forcibly removed from her when she is seen strolling aimlessly at the railway station.
The film created such an impact after its release that the issue of homelessness became a national agenda and was discussed in the Parliament. Sadly, as the director, Ken Loach puts it, it was a storm in a teacup. It was business as usual for the capitalist. Loach went on to direct many social awakening films. His latest offering is the dilemma of a working class man who has to work to support himself due to bureaucratic rulings but against his doctors' advice.
One of the reasons why the Chinese diaspora prosper wherever they go is their outlook towards life. Staying true to Confucius' teachings, education is given paramount importance. The desire to own land and properties is high on their list of things to do. These two traits with the desire to strive hard must the secret of success in life. This must also be the reason the concept of 'Malay Reserve Land' was thought about when the British realised that the Rulers had a real possibility of losing their ancestral land to new economic migrants at the turn of the 20th century.
Without a shelter above their heads and education (and a birth certificate), a Man will be considered a persona-non-grata in this country and has to make way to the next highest bidder. In essence, you are a slave to system.
Just the other day, I watched a youtube presentation of a discussion on the affairs of world economics, mainly European economics, between two world icons, Yanis Varoufakis, an academician with a short-lived political stint in Greek Cabinet and Professor Noam Chomsky, the renowned political activist, linguist and philosopher at MIT.
The gist that I gathered from the discussion is that the world is made for the affluent. Nobody gives a damn about social justice, equality, liberty and those standard phrases that go with freedom. It is all a charade. The idea of politics is just to fatten the selected few. The rich get richer, and the poor become poorer as time goes on and the rich squeeze more from the poor.
In a press conference recently in 2014, an executive from a multinational company unabashedly told the pressmen that his firm made medicine for the wealthy Western patients who could afford it, not poor Indians, justifying his company's inflated prices of products. The dream of medical advances being developed for humanity remains only in the compilations of Medical History books. In 1929, George Merck allegedly had said, "We try never to forget that medicine is for the people. It is not for the profits. The profits follow, and if we have remembered that, they have never failed to appear. The better we have remembered it, the larger they have been."
Medicine is no more the 'noble' profession that the Catholic nuns and Fathers used to clamour to do. In 1978 when Nestle was sued for causing malnutrition in underdeveloped countries amongst babies whose mothers could not read the instructions on the labels, the company had the cheek to say that they make products for the rich and middle class. They cannot be blamed if the poor wants to mimic the affluent. And they certainly cannot be blamed for the lack of clean water facilities (used to make tainted milk that caused gastroenteritis) and illiteracy (that is the inefficiency of the ruling powers). So the world is the stage for the rich. The poor are there for the numbers and create the market. Nobody gives a rat's ass about the weak. It is all rhetorics to cloud the eyes of the poor to satisfy one's private intent. http://usuncut.com/class-war/valeant-ceo-shareholder-profit/
They say it is the latest happening place in town. With the U.S. 1950s rock and roll theme, flashy photos of automobiles of yesteryear and matinee idols of that era plastered on the wall and equally striking paint work, it gave the impression of a bugle call for the hipsters, the young, the nouve riche and the like. Welcome to the love child of capitalism, unabated vulgar consumerism. Sure, they like the calories filled cholesterol laden jumbo sized servings, they also like the personalised wishes that we cheerily call out as they enter or leave the premises. Some say that our frequent breaking into songs and dance routines is annoyance but I do not see anyone complaining! They even seem to swing about, sing along and even dance a step or two with us in tandem.
Given a choice, I would like to have that mandatory dance performance struck off my numerous lists of duties. The old injury that I inherited enroute to the maternity shed back home in Cebu is acting funny again. Yes, I am an immigrant Pinoy worker who left my 2 toddler kids and a drunkard husband behind to try my fortune in this plush land of plenty. Fortune aplenty I did lose trying to pay off the scavenging middlemen and corrupt officials before even before landing here. Just like many new graduates here, I became a pauper and in debt even I started earn anything at all. I am here because nobody here wants to do the job I am doing here. They cannot take the pressure of listening to the whims and fancies of the little Emperors whom I have to entertain on a daily basis. I guess I can and have to take their whining and eat humble pie as they are the haves and I, have not!
Life goes on as they say, in sorrow or in joy. I do look forward to those Sunday mornings when I pay my dues to the Divine for all the little naughty unsanctioned things I do over the weekday. A little dishonesty here and a little there, I am hoping to start a new slate come Monday. New leaf? Maybe later! Morality does not bring the bacon to table!
Thulabaram (Sacrifice, Tamil; 1968) I do not know why but I keep watching this movie over and over again over the years. Maybe because it draws me back to the time of RRF and the time that steamed with hopelessness and helplessness. At the same time, I do not agree with the melodrama and the self pity that is exhibited in full glory in this flick. So, psychoanalyse me!
This was one of the first movies that Amma took me to watch back in the days. Perhaps, she needed to reminisce her trying times of early adulthood.
Even after all these years, its songs, especially 'Kaathrinile Perum Kaathrinile' sang beautifully by K.J. Yesudass, still makes my hairs at the back of my neck stand.
This movie skyrocketed in popularity in the South that remakes were made in Tamil, Telegu and Hindi using the same main actress, Sharadha. The original film was made in Malayalam based on stage show. Sharadha went on to receive the National Film Award for that year.
Sharadha
Coming from a stronghold communist state, the story has all the hallmarks of capitalistic bashing. Bleak picture of the workers clan bullied by businessmen and crooked supposedly upholders of justice and liberty is evident here. Human values are replaced with the greed of profit and need to fatten one's wallet. In the charade of human greediness, the victims are the downtrodden working class who are not appreciated for their sacrifice but are scorned upon as an annoyance! Of course, the story takes it to the other extreme.
The story starts in a court-room. Vijaya (Sharadha) is in the dock for mercilessly poisoning her three kids. Keeping mum, the Public Prosecutor,Vatsala, (the ever beautiful Indian ex-stewardess turned actress and turned priestess, Kanjana) has an easy time proving her case. Vijaya is defended by a bumbling lawyer, Samanthan (the ever versatile TS Ballaiah) and his crook of a secretary (Nagesh).
As the case almost comes to an end, Vijaya finally breaks her silence. She narrates her side of the story. And the credits roll in as we are transported to a time when Vatsala and Vijaya are easy going bharathanatyam dancing university students pursuing BA.
Vatsala's father is a crooked lawyer (TS Balliah) who is not very bright but strikes rich with his client's ignorance and naivety. His assistant, Nagesh, uses his position to con the gullible for a little tips here and there. Looks like between of these Brahmins, they try to outdo each other in getting bribes! Their antics on-screen are great to watch. (A bashing of the upper caste of society)
Vijaya's father (Major Sunderajan) had seen better times. A disciplinarian and a stickler to time, order and natural justice, he had helped his relatives just to be left in a lurch with a lawsuit on his property and his factory for ownership. Hold behold his lawyer is the incompetent Samanthan!
Tragedy strikes when Vijaya's father loses his case and is thrown out his own house. Left as a pauper with no means to support himself and his daughter and shunned by friends and relatives, the trauma proved too heavy on his ailing heart. He succumbs to a massive heart attack. The only loyal worker who stood by Vijaya and her father is Ramu (the melodrama king of tragedy, AVM Rajan).
As the cash kitty gets smaller and the hostility of the Indian environment on seeing a helpless innocent young pretty girl proved too much, Ramu brings Vijaya to stay in his ramshackle hut of a factory worker. Ramu's household personifies the epitome of melancholia with bare necessities and a ever complaining mother who openly expresses her discontent of life and she imagines a comfortable life with her daughter and husband, which never materialises.
Back in university, Vijaya was chased around by a fun loving jovial fellow student, Muthuraman. Seeing her hopeless states of affairs in Vijaya, her beau decides to confess that their relationship was based on friendship love, not the lover's kind!
Left hanging on a thread, Vijaya takes the bold step to nosedive into the web of poverty, to marry the sad faced Ramu. They had bliss in their humble abode. Testimony of their happiness were the three kids and the song which showcases the joy of celebration in a poor man's home.' " Come ponggal or diwali, there are only tears in our home...!" How more pathetic can you sound?
As if not enough, tragedy strikes yet again. Due to management-workers' dispute, the factory is closed indefinitely and Ramu and his co-worker are left to starve. Union disputes becomes intense and Ramu is finally knifed down, leaving Vijaya and the kids hungry and penniless. If fate is cruel, the society is also unkind. Relatives and neighbours soon start hurling various unsavoury accusation against this young widow. Hunger drives the children to beg, enraging Vijaya. Soon they start to steal food. All these proved too much for someone who at one time had her future all paved ahead of her. She opts for mass suicide. Unfortunately, she survives and is put on the dock.... The storyteller tries to justify the protagonist's actions and inactions to the cruelty of society and fate. She does not admonish the lack of her initiative to uproot herself from misery but instead look for self pity. Perhaps if we had walked a mile in their shoes..
A timeless classic with melodious melodies to match the path of nostalgia. A reminder though...
Now, if only the children knew a soup kitchen they could go to....
