Maniacal to the T
As NDTV relentlessly airs interviews, theater peeks and reactions of the fan-frenzy crowd, this news of Rajnikant’s recently released film and events surrounding its release is as much entertaining as it is nostalgic.
When we saw this, we laughed about how Sivaji The Boss broke into Bangalore—Kannadigas have long been protesting (often violently) against first-showing of non-Kannada films in Karnataka—the state I come from. This film’s release in Karnataka in its first week breaks into that idea and how.
Unlike other Indian regional films, Tamil cinema is much aired and celebrated in Sri Lanka, Malaysia and Singapore—all three countries have Tamil as one of their recognized national languages. So, it is not surprising that Tamil films do better at the box office than many of the other Indian regional films combined.
The other interesting bit is that entertainment and politics here go hand-in-hand. Many political leaders are (or have been) film actors, and they enjoy an enviable patronage. It is almost as if the common man of Tamil Nadu perceives his leader as someone fighting for the good cause in real life, as he does on celluloid. So, when it comes to loyalty towards actors or actor-turned politicians, lines between fans and fanatics blur. The first time I witnessed this was in Madurai.
It was December 1987. I was a kid in my eleventh grade on a tour of South India, with my parents and family friends. We were in the last leg of our tour. We had just returned from our visit to the famous Madurai Meenaxi temple that evening, when our hotel manager informed us about the possible trouble erupting in the city and in the rest of the state of Tamil Nadu.
MGR had just died and we were about to find out what really hit us.
Doordarshan—the Indian national television channel was airing the demise of MG Ramachandran—the famous south Indian actor turned politician. People were immobilized for a few moments before turning frantic upon learning this piece of news. It was like shock and recoil behavior. We were advised to get food, drinks and were told to stay put. But since we were departing to Rameswaram the next morning, we wondered what could possibly go wrong.
Within an hour, the entire city of Madurai shut itself down. It was a spectacle—the shutters around our hotel came down rolling, the parked street vendors around the area carted-off hurriedly with the bustling streets suddenly turning pale and empty. It was such an unfamiliar sight that it didn’t take long for us to realize what was happening.
Fear was in the air.
We were, in all, four adults and four kids and we went in a direction each—looking to buy bottled water, food, fruits and anything we could get. The restaurant, where we had had our lunch—refused to provide us with any just four hours later. The restaurant owner’s deep frown was in complete contrast with his smile that morning. His face registered panic as he was hurriedly commanding his employees to close and saying “No” in the same breath to everything we requested him for.
Within two hours, Madurai turned into a ghostly looking town. A couple of phone calls later we thought “Shit, we’re stuck”. It confirmed what we feared the most—that we could be here longer than planned, and that going to Rameswaram was simply out of the question.
Much of next day went-by staying holed-up in the hotel listening to news, and the heightened frenzyness it brought throughout the state. We occasionally heard shattered glasses and angry mourning mob shouting throughout the night. It became clear that it wasn’t safe anymore to stay there.
By nightfall, there were a few vendors out on the street selling MGR’s posters, pictures and black flags for mourning. My father and Dr Deshpande picked up two each for our cars. They came back and spread the big road map out on the bed as we discussed the way out. We decided to avoid highways—taking narrow state roads to enter Kerala as a quick exit out of this violently mourning crazy land.
On December 26, 1987, at 4:00am, our Marutis headed out of Madurai with windshields half covered by MGR’s smiling face duct-taped and black flags hoisted on our radio antennae.
Next came the road blocks. Infested along the entire route to Kerala, it was incredible to see them even on those less traveled roads and where people took turns through the night to stop vehicles near every village that had a handful of huts.
Almost every passing village had a them decorated with colored lamps, with megaphones blaring songs from MGR’s films with benches for people to sit around—coffee brewing on the side for the night mourners. These tents were like local fan club outlets. Boulders were laid in front of these, which were big enough to block any vehicle. And where they didn’t have boulders, they used benches.
Every time we were stopped—this happened an awful number of times to remember—we’d all point to MGR’s picture and the flag as if to tell them that we indeed respect their icon and mourn the sad demise of their demigod. And if that didn’t work, then my dad would go up and talk to people to allow us to go, using his limited linguistic tamil skills1. Speaking in Tamil softened them up a bit and most allowed us to go—with an exception of a few who demanded money, which we were most willing to give in exchange for letting us pass.
Reaching Kerala border seemed like an adventure that day, and we made it after a grueling twelve hours to cover merely a couple of hundred kilometers.
Twenty years hence, today when I see similar fanaticism—in people flocking to see Rajnikant’s new avatar—I really wonder if much has changed since then.
- Using his fine understanding of old Kannda—which is almost like Tamil and is particularly noticeable in Kannda poetry. [←]
I had a similar situation in Bangalore when Rajkumar passed away… It is really funny and sad to see people taking what is shown in the movies as the truth.
Jun 21, 07 at 11:57