Discovering my Privilege

Age typically makes us wiser and hopefully better persons. I am not sure if I am wiser or better, but I’d like to think that I am more aware. On the eve of becoming a year older, here are some musings on how I think about my privilege. In line with my other blog posts and my continuing quest to make more Indians watch non-Hindi language movies, I’m making a couple of movie recommendations in line

I was always very proud of two things, my secular and liberal leanings and my “middle class Mumbaikar” origins. I was unquestionably sure that I was self-made and all that I achieved in life was due to ‘my’ merit and ‘my’ talent. Until recently, I never realized that I was the product of a society that practically guaranteed my success from the day I was born because of the gender, religion and caste I was born with.

It was only when I moved to the U.S. that I was introduced to the concept of privilege. Even then, I mainly found it interesting as an outsider. At the time, it just seemed an amusing anthropological study of reasons for inequalities in the American society and mainly a “white man’s burden”. Until recently never did I ever examine how my own privilege was the reason for and in turn the cause of similar inequalities in Indian society.

The Bombay I grew up in was a largely sanitized place compared to the rest of India. We tended to sweep problematic discussions under metaphorical carpets.  We reveled in our imagined “cosmopolitan” ethos even if that sometimes entailed making jokes about madrasis, ghatis and bhaiyya which signified something more denigrating than what these monikers actually meant (And still mean). Economic inequalities were summarily dismissed with simple explanations that ran something like this: people came to Bombay to make money and invariably some succeeded and others didn’t. The fact that my parents were literate, held white collar jobs and had time to raise and educate me was a given. I never questioned why my parents were among the few people who were college educated, among the few people who spoke English well, why my mother was among a smaller percentage of women who worked. None of this lead me to question why we were the chosen ones, but did lead me to feel really proud of all that I and my family had achieved. The ease with which they were able to get opportunities and as a result were able to thrive was all too easily ignored by me.

The narrative of me being part of an illusory “middle class” and that I earned my way to where I am today was much more exciting, but unfortunately flawed. Even the social and intellectual freedoms I enjoy, the opinions I freely express, the liberties I can take in India are something I have always taken for granted and are unavailable or come at a huge cost to a majority of Indians.

I am privileged because I am a man. Being male in India, I’ve had opportunities that aren’t available to others. No one told me to come home early or watch what I was wearing or question who I was hanging out with. No one told me that I ‘must’ learn to cook. No one questioned me when I wanted to study further or when I wanted to go abroad. No one questioned me when I married well into my thirties. In fact even today, no one questions me on how I am raising my children or what I cooked for dinner. People speak to me when discussing matters of ‘importance’. Enough said.

I am privileged because I am Hindu. It’s a well-documented statistic that being Hindu enhances employment opportunities and ability to get housing or housing loans. As much as we would like to believe that all Indians are equal, not being a Hindu comes with a glass ceiling that is unbreakable in today’s India. The sad part is a lot of the discrimination is something most Indians aren’t even aware of and perpetrate subconsciously. Most obviously, there is one liberty that I take for granted. Freedom of Speech! I can argue for secular ideals without my patriotism being questioned. I can fight with people over their bigotry without fear of being humiliated or worse, beaten. And, yes I can safely say that Wasim Akram is my favorite fast bowler!

Lastly, I am privileged because I am upper caste. This aspect took me the longest time to understand because I was brought up in Bombay where caste seemingly isn’t as relevant. But caste in villages is replaced by class in the city. It doesn’t take much to peel the layers to understand why my parents are graduates but our house maid isn’t. It was caste that afforded me the opportunity to be born to well-educated parents who could send me to an English medium school. It was caste and the thousands of years of privilege that led my grandfather to migrate to Bombay with a white collar job that allowed him to educate my father. It was caste and thousands of years of privilege that allowed my grandfather’s father to make money being a priest and allowed him to buy acres of land in the village that in turn allowed my grandfather to freedom to pursue an economic opportunity in Bombay. The same privilege and opportunities weren’t afforded to our housemaid’s ancestors. How many times must I have casually spoken about reservations (affirmative action, in case my daughter reads this years from now and wonders what I am talking about) and how people coming through the “quota” system were not as deserving as those coming in from the “open” categories, how easily have I spoken about someone’s lack of felicity in English without realizing that English Medium schools in India are very rare and affordable and accessible to only a small percentage. How easily did I ignore all the thousands of years of prejudice and inequality that created an abysmally unfair playing field that even a 100 years of reservation isn’t going to help level. Now coming to tying this post to movies! I am of the firm belief that culture educates and also think there is a lot of truth in life imitating art. The two movies I’m recommending are movies that have had a huge impact in helping me understand my privilege in the context of Indian society. Both these movies did an excellent job of articulating what being privileged is without delving into too much exposition. Both movies show and don’t tell. Lastly, these aren’t obscure art house movies. Both are highly entertaining with riveting plots and some amazing writing, acting and direction. They would definitely rank among the more important movies of the decade and a must watch for anyone trying to make sense of Indian society. Following is a short description and the links to their trailers.

The first one is Pariyerum Perumal (Tamil with subtitles, available on Amazon Prime). The soundtrack by Santhosh Narayanan and the lead performance by Kathir are among the best in recent Indian cinema. This movie makes us experience what it is to be a lower caste student studying in an English Medium law college and all of the obstacles he has to face including not being able to express himself freely. To truly understand and empathize with what it means to be oppressed, look no further than this masterpiece:

The second one is Fandry (Marathi, Zee5). Nagraj Manjule is more famously know for Sairat, his exposition on a tragic love story riven by an insurmountable caste divide. However, it is Fandry, his earlier movie, which had more of an impact on me. In many ways it is the spiritual companion movie to watch with Pariyerum Perumal, almost prequel like. What’s special about this movie is that it doesn’t make us feel sympathy for the lower caste protagonist but rather puts us in his shoes and makes us feel his anger.

An American Dream

The sun was high, Ray was sitting on the porch overlooking his freshly mowed lawn, sipping a beer, admiring his hardwork. He was feeling as fresh as his lawn, it had rained the night before and he could see the dew glistening on each blade of grass. Maya would be back from school soon, he had to fix her some lunch, Anita would be back later from work, and Ray needed to get the laundry done before then, fold the clothes just as Anita liked. To kill time, he started counting the blades of grass, he reached 1500 before he dozed. That’s when the nightmare started.

Ray had been a successful investment banker on Wall Street, he lost his job during the financial crisis, but he had earned and saved enough to not ever worry about work or money, besides Anita was a successful, highly paid marketing executive. Their marriage was practically the most perfect marriage there could ever have been. When Ray was starting out with his career, Anita worked at the local hospital as a nurse and helped Ray through business school. When Ray started his job, Anita took some time off and with Ray’s help pursued her masters. She then took some time off to have Maya. That was 8 years ago. Once out of labor, Anita had wanted to kick-start her career and easily found a job at a digital marketing company. They loved each other, holidayed every year biking through various European countries. They lived a good life until the accident. Nobody had gotten hurt, was a miraculous escape for all three. But Ray had been getting these nightmares.

The nightmares almost always began with Ray sitting on his porch staring at a full moon and hearing a scream. The shriek always disturbed Ray. An unhealthy animal yell as disturbing as fingernails being forcibly dragged through the rustiest iron piecing through the silent as Stillwater night.

He woke up swathed in sweat, the bell had been ringing for a while. ‘Must be Maya’ Ray thought, snapped out of his semi-shivering reverie.

“How was school today, munchkin?”

“Was good daddy, I aced my math quiz thanks to you”

“Oh was good too, sweetie, finished the lawn and now planning to build the tree house you always wanted, should be done in a month, you can have a slumber party with your friends soon”

“Thanks Daddy, ok see you later” Maya grabbed her sandwich and ran up to her bedroom to play her PS3 and text with her friends. Ray was sad. The same cursory meaningless conversations, when had his little girl stopped conversing with him as if he was the most important person in her life, asking questions. He remembered the time when he used to be annoyed by Maya’s endless questions “Which is bigger five miles or five pounds, why is the world round, why this why that”, at the time he wanted these questions to end, now he missed them.

“I wonder why Maya doesn’t talk to me”, he told Anita

“Don’t know Ray, maybe this is just part of her growing up”

“But she talks to you all the time”

“Oh, that’s just girl talk, anyway did you see about the job my friend recommended?”

“Oh, that? No not interested”

“Not interested in that job or just not interested in working anymore, you used to be different Ray.”

“Anita, we have enough money to last till I have grand children, plus you earn good money, why do you want me to work?”

“So that you don’t sit at home all day”

Just like that, no recognition for the mowed lawn or the neatly laundered clothes. Ray tried a different tack “So have been meaning to talk about our next trip, when do you think you can get some time off?”

“Sorry honey not this year, its an important year, my promotion is up, need to make sure I meet our targets, your little wifey can soon be president of the child care division”

“Okay, do you want to walk a little, would be good to get out of this house”

“Sorry Ray, have a meeting tomorrow at 8:00 a.m. with a very important client need to go to sleep now”

Maya was in her bedroom doing what an 8 year old would do, Anita was fast asleep and Ray was afraid of sleeping, so he took his beer out to the porch to pursue his newly acquired pastime – shooting squirrels with a bb gun. “Any squirrel wanting a juicy ripe tomato in Ray’s backyard is going to meet his maker.”

The scream again shattered through the night in his dream. He followed the direction of the scream, all he could see were silhouettes a hand raised, some blunt instrument  and the outline of a small head in the shed behind his house, he raced out the backdoor of the kitchen across the backyard through to the shed, the scream stopped. Ray woke up with a splitting headache.

The next day morning, sipping coffee he wanted somebody to speak to “Anita, you know about my nightmares? Think they have changed, its no longer just the scream but I saw shadows and…”

Anita looked up from her copy of the Journal, “Oh really, honey, why don’t you see a doctor. Anyway,  have to go now bye” she kissed his forehead and left in her Porsche 911 convertible.

Ray thought to himself, “This would never have happened when I was working, when I was the toast of Wall Street, I had Anita eating at my every words, hey I am still the guy who bought this house, bought the SUV for Anita why am I being treated like a pet and why am I not driving my Porsche”

Ray went to the doctor, got a prescription for his headache and went back to his daily routine – doing nothing. He had meant to work on the tree house, but was a little sedated and dozed off over a glass of beer.

This time the nightmare was more vivid, it began with the shrieking and Ray running through to the door of the shed in his backyard, he still saw the silhouettes, but he could make out from the shapes a tall,  graceful, feline figure arching over a smaller round figure. The blunt instrument was in the taller figure’s hand constantly striking the smaller figure and he saw it all till the shrieking stopped. This time Ray was woken up by Maya, “Daddy, can I get 100 dollars, need to go out to the mall with my friends”

“Let me see, should have some money in my wallet” all he had was 20 dollars and some change. “Sorry sweetie, need to go to the bank and withdraw some money can you make do with 20 today?”

“Oh, daddy, you are so useless, I will look so cheap in front of my friends now, cant wait for mommy to get home”

After Maya walked away in a huff, Ray reflected on his life, “Where had it all gone wrong, what am I doing wrong, why does no one like me, why am I not important enough, why don’t my wife and daughter respect me, why do I have these dreams”

Another night of restless sleep, was almost a relief when Ray couldn’t sleep, at least he didn’t have to deal with the nightmares. He was reminded of a line from his favorite book, “The horror, the horror”. He had a feeling he knew who those figures were, but didn’t want to say or think it out loud.

It was Anita’s day off. [Insert language from Anita and Ray]

The dream had progressed further, he had a bb gun in hand now, he ran even faster to the shed, and opened the door and saw Anita hunched over limp, lifeless Maya. “You don’t hurt my little girl and get away with it you ____. ” He aimed his bb gun at her…Ray woke up the headache was worse than before, Anita wasn’t in her bed. As he went down the staircase to get a glass of water and his medicine, he heard hushed tones. “I don’t know how to say it to Ray, Tom, but we have seemed to reach a dead end, I only feel guilt when I see him lounging in the house doing nothing, he was a man before and now he just seems so domesticated, I think he needs help”.

Tears welled up in Ray’s eyes, involuntarily, “I am not a man? I created this family, why is Anita doing this to me?”. Most of all he was afraid Anita would take Maya along with her, the thought of Maya growing up not being aware of the man Ray was, not respecting him, being a mere footnote in her life was a thought which Ray couldn’t bear. Anita had loved him once, now he was just an embarrassment, a mere distraction from her life which she so desperately wanted to get on with. Ray had been afraid of going to sleep but now he was even more afraid to face his life. “Maybe Anita is right”, with a new resolve Ray reached up to his medical cabinet.

It took Anita and the neighbors the whole morning to breakdown the shed. They found Ray lying down on his back, his eyes staring peacefully into the darkness of the wooden beams, a faint smile across his face. Anita and Maya left the house that day, the house Ray had built, the house of so many happy memories. But they were too saddened by an act of willful wantonness from a man they had loved, admired and respected so much to continue living in it.

Ray was closer to the screams than before, but this time he knew exactly what to do, he opened the door switch on the light, placed the BB gun on his left shoulder. He was confident. Ray could hit a running squirrel from ten yards away and Anita was but an easy target. His fingers tightly wound around the trigger, he approached Anita as she was about to strike Maya. Anita stopped and looked. Her’s bewildered look brought a faint amusement in his face. He had wanted to ask why, but to what end? It would not make him a man. So before he could ask what Anita was doing, before Anita could time to respond, he pulled the trigger. The bullet hit Anita between the eyes. Anita slumped to the ground lifeless instantly, the bewilderment transfixed in her eyes. He went down to Maya, freed her from the chains that Anita had so cruelly tied his baby girl in. Maya hugged him tight. The sunrays gently wafted in through the broken window panes of the garden shed and a beatific smile passed over Ray. He was happy, too bad Anita couldn’t be a part of his life anymore but he was the man of the house again.

The Crusade

Ten million people and counting; alleys teeming with people during the day but alone and dark at night; Bombay is an easy city to get lost in; an easy city to feel lonely in.

Whenever I am lonely and lost in Bombay, I always find solace in the sunset off the City’s coast. The brown water of the Arabian Sea gets ready to gorge down the pale polluted sun; the heat of the day settles down and light turns to twilight; I feel at peace.

It’s been over fifteen years since I met Razia. I met her at the center for our 12th grade exams. I studied at the Aryan Education Society (a school for upper caste Hindu boys).  Razia was from Anjuman-E-Islam (literally the Islamic Society), a school in the inner-city.

The nineties in Bombay saw the height of communal discomfort between Hindus and Muslims.  We razed to the ground one of their sacred mosques, in retaliation they planted suicide bombers on Bombay’s crowded streets, in retaliation we killed and raped their people on the streets, in their homes, their offices … you know how it goes. Bombay was about to be over-run politically by the right-wing nationalists calling themselves the Warriors of God – a group of Hindus, an Aryan Brotherhood of sorts, who believed they were the true purveyors of the Aryan race – who wanted Muslims to pledge their allegiance to the Indian motherland or else be prepared to be booted across the border into Pakistan – our little brothers of a lesser faith.

‘Sometimes these Muslims should know their place, India is a Hindu country and they can practice their religion as long as they accept this fact, else we should send them to rot in Pakistan’, my father, a proud Warrior of God, used to muse.

Under these circumstances, the chance for someone like me to get to know someone like Razia was very rare.

Eyes peering through a burqah, enquiring, yet kind, she asked, “Excuse me are you also studying for your French exam?”

I was taken aback; I well prepared for the exam and was just skimming through the textbook. But I needed to focus and wasn’t prepared to be disturbed, let alone by someone dressed like her.

‘Their womenfolk, all day in their burqahs, they stink,’ my father used to say. I could understand, Bombay was a very hot place and people wearing burqahs had to be stupid.

“Yes I am; did you want anything?”

“I am sorry. I forgot my books at home. Could I borrow your copy of “En Enchanges” book?”

“Umm… okay… but I need it back in five minutes”

She raised her veil, “Sure, really sorry again”. She didn’t stink.  Her hair was short and her face fair unlike mine.

After five minutes, as promised, she handed back my book, “Thanks.”

“Why do you wear a burqah?” I don’t know why I asked that question, must have been the heat, must have been the exam or maybe it was how strikingly beautiful she was.

“Why? Do you like what you see?” she said with a hint of a twinkle in her eye and walked down the hallway.

‘Hmm; a Muslim and a flirt’, I thought.

Three hours later the exam ended, I was happy–I thought I had crammed enough to pass French and the summer holidays had begun–and was packing up my pencils, pens, erasers and my trusty blade with which I sharpened pencils when I saw Razia approaching me.

“Excuse me, could I ask you for a favor? I am a little worried as this is a Hindu neighborhood. Could you walk me home? It’s just a couple of blocks.”

‘Interesting excuse’ I thought to myself.

 Meeting Razia had easily been the most interesting experience of my whole life. It awakened a yearning I didn’t want to get rid of. I wasn’t going to let this opportunity slip by. I decided to walk her through my neighborhood over the yonder to the inner-city ghetto – what Indians proudly refer to as Asia’s largest slum.

The awkward silence on the way back was a little uncomfortable, guess she felt it too.

She asked, “So do you get to walk Muslim girls often?”

“No, you are my first”, I replied; she smiled.  

Another awkward silence ensued.

Not being able to bear the silence, I blurted, “So do you have a boyfriend?”

“Excuse me?”

“I asked if you have a boyfriend.”

“Not sure if that’s any of your business. But you boys are so predictable”, the twinkle again. ‘Time to go in for the kill’, I thought.

“Sorry if I seem too nosy, just trying to kill time, don’t worry I am not interested in you people”.

Growing up in the ‘socialist, secular Indian Republic’, in the eighties, meant watching television with family-friendly and sanitized programs and advertising. For example our national television used to urge Indian men to use contraception by propagandizing the concept of a happy family – that meant a mother, a father and two kids – without doubt the surest way to bliss – ‘Us Two, Our Two; a happy family’. My father used to joke, ‘I am sure when they advertise in the Muslim areas they use ‘Us five, our twenty-five; a poor and dirty family.’

“I used to have a boyfriend but don’t see him anymore. Father found out and prohibited me from seeing him again.”

It was getting dark, unusually so for a monsoon evening in Bombay, suddenly everything was quiet at once, we walked some more.

“Is your boyfriend Muslim?”

“Umm… yes he is. But I am pretty open-minded.”

Suddenly, we heard footsteps running towards us. A group of ten people with the Warriors of God saffron headbands approached us with medieval damascene swords in their hands,

“What is your name?” one of them asked me.

I was prepared for such an eventuality, “Robert Da Cunha.”

‘Pretend to be a Christian and you never have to worry if the attackers are Hindus or Muslims’, my father had warned me.

”Foreskin or no foreskin, guess that is the true test isn’t it? Drop your pants”, a rather fierce looking midget from the group said.

My religion does not expressly demand a circumcision and dropping my pants did not cause me much concern other than the obvious embarrassment of doing it in front of Razia.

“Sure”, I said. Seeing my confidence, the midget lost his; soon the group focused its attention on Razia.

I was ready, “She is my girlfriend and we are dressing up for a fancy dress ball at Mahim church; it’s the last day of festivities before the beginning of Lent.”

That seemed to do the trick. The midget peered close to her veil and smelled her, he seemed satisfied.

“Hmm… she doesn’t stink, can’t be a Muslim” the midget guffawed to his group. He stared at me once before turning back and running on to the next unsuspecting Muslim.

It was the Hindu Sri Lankan Tamil Tigers who pioneered suicide bombing on a mass scale in the twentieth century. They started by first killing off their ministers and politicians and then when India meddled in their affairs they responded by killing our then ex-prime minister.

‘But Muslims’ my father used to say, ‘…are not ideologically driven like the Tamil tigers, they become suicide bombers because their God promises them 72 virgins in heaven, I wonder if they ever run out of virgins up there.’

“Thank you so much for what you did back there.”

“Don’t worry about it”, I replied.

Moments passed, think I was getting more and more into Razia’s good books. She broke the silence, once again flirtatious, “As I was saying I am open-minded.”

“Yes Razia, but are you a virgin?”, I was feeling confident and was now tired of this game.

“What?”

“I said did you fuck your Muslim boyfriend? Are you a virgin?”

“Look here, I really appreciate you helping me out back there, but these questions are becoming awkward. I am safe now; think I can take care of myself from here. Thank you”

“It’s a simple question—are you or are you not a virgin?”

“Why do you even want to know?”

“’Cause I just remembered something my father said to me about Muslim virgins.”

“Thanks again for all your help. I see my neighborhood, bye.”

“I take that as a yes” I responded as I held her hand firm and turned into the alley adjacent to her ghetto before she could scream. “Look, my father is a policeman, please let me go.”

She deserved to know why. “My father was a smart man, but they killed him”, I said.

“Who did?”

“Why you people, of course, you remember the suicide bomber near the railway station last year? He did not kill just the mayor, my father was among the twenty bystanders killed”, I had tightened my grip on Razia’s wrist.

“But what did I ever do to you? Please let me go; please.”

“Nothing”, I pondered over what she said. She had done nothing to me, she was probably the nicest anyone had been to me in over a year, she had short hair, a fair face and she did not stink. But my father’s death had to be avenged; and Razia was a Muslim virgin.

“I am sorry Razia. I see no other way. All I want is peace and fewer Muslim virgins.”

I undid her dress and her innocence as she began screaming, I felt sorry for Razia, thinking what would have happened if I hadn’t had the French textbook or if she approached someone else for the book. But I didn’t feel any remorse; after all she was a Muslim.

Razia was beautiful naked but loud in her screams of agony or ecstasy. Her shrieks had long been drowned by the solitude of the dark alley and the cacophony of her ghetto behind us. Bombay is an easy city to get lost in; it is also an easy city to get away with murder.

As I was wiping the razor clean, the Warriors of God midget walked up to me and chortled, “Boy did I embarrass you by asking you to drop your pants; so guess you took care of this one all right?”

“Yes, she is useless in heaven now”, I had cut her throat clean – let all the blood into a gutter – very halal.  

“Next time make up a better story – whoever heard of a Catholic going out in a burqah for a fancy dress ball and that too before Lent!”, it was the first time in a year that I laughed. As I walked back home to my orphanage, I heard the police sirens wail loudly. The sun set over Bombay—what a glorious sunset it was.

Despite the naïve patriotism on display, Roja is classic Mani Ratnam and a movie for the ages

Roja holds a special place in my life as a cinephile. Growing up in Mumbai as a Tamilian, my movie universes were always mutually exclusive, it was always Kamal / Rajini at home and Amitabh outside. Mani Ratnam was celebrated thanks to Sunday Afternoon Doordarshan viewings of Mouna Raagam, Anjali and Nayakan. But even with the national acclaim, he was more familiar to my Madrasi cousins that to my classmates from Mumbai. All that changed when Roja released in August 1992 and became India’s first pan-Indian hit.

For the first time my north and south cultural universes collided. It was a unique story never before told (Kashmiri Separatism, a software engineer cryptologist as the hero, the word Jehad – Roja had a lot of firsts in Indian Cinema), Mani Ratnam’s superior craft, the movie’s nationalistic fervor, its topical subject and AR Rahman bursting on to the national consciousness all played a part in the movie’s lasting impact across India. It represented the first of Mani Ratnam’s pan-Indian political trilogy movies (the others being Bombay and Dil Se). For the few who haven’t seen or heard of the movie, the plot is a 20th century adaptation of the Satyavan Savitri myth. Set in Kashmir at the beginning of the separatist movement (and based on a true story), a wife fights to get her software engineer husband back from the people who kidnapped him.

I happened to watch the movie nearly 28 years later. I thought the movie would have aged badly. But despite some convenient commercial compromises the movie is a classic which showcases all of Mani Ratnam’s talents that we have come to love, admire and respect.

The movie is very strongly feminist. I didn’t realize it back in 1992 (shame on me, the title said Roja), but Roja (played by Madhoo) is among Mani Ratnam’s strongest woman characters. She is very clear on what she wants and will go to any ends to achieve it. Roja is not shy or timid in her actions or her thoughts. She is single-minded and determined to succeed at any cost in her attempt to free her husband. She talks to policemen, army colonels, ministers and even the dreaded terrorist, Waseem Khan (played by Shiv Rindani), to secure her husband’s release. She doesn’t let her lack of sophistication, or her lack of knowledge of Hindi or English come in the way. She isn’t afraid to manipulate or emotionally blackmail people in power for her wants and needs (the “beti” scene with the minister is the one I love). She doesn’t need any male guardian angel or savior to help her. Whatever she does and achieves is entirely on her own. She is entirely selfish in her motives and actions. The scene that blew my mind was the one where she looks at her husband’s sweater after he has been kidnapped and recalls a physically intimate moment with him. She misses her husband not out of any sense of loyalty or “pativrata-ness”, she misses him as much physically as she does emotionally. For a film maker to show that a woman could be driven by “base” desires is considered courageous in 2020, for Mani Ratnam to conceive of this scene in 1992 is all the more impressive.

The male protagonist – Rishi played by Arvind Swami) who (although simplistic) probably ranks among Mani Ratnam’s most liked heroes. His profession (a computer engineer cryptologist), his progressive views, the circumstances that lead to him marrying Roja were all very fresh back then. I like Rishi a lot because he says sorry multiple times when he accidentally tears Roja’s blouse, he sincerely mourns the death of Liyakat’s (played by Pankaj Kapur) younger brother (a budding future separatist) when he attempts to cross the Indian border to get military training, he is beaten and thrashed by the terrorists in his attempt to escape and what finally reunites him with his wife is an act of humanity by Liyakat (played by an able Pankaj Kapur), the terrorist and not his own heroism. For all of these qualities, I chose to ignore the jingoism in Rishi, which hasn’t aged all that well over the years.

The supporting cast was terrific. Normally, I am not a big fan of “comedy tracks” and Achu Maharaj’s (played by Janakaraj) presence seems too convenient. Nonetheless it made Roja’s success more believable as she needed someone to know Hindi to help her out with officials and the North Indian bureaucracy. I loved the scene when Colonel Rayappa (played by a fantastic Nassar) comes to congratulate Roja on her husband’s impending release in exchange for the Indian Government releasing the dreaded terrorist Waseem Khan. What seems like a happy moment for Roja turns into something very uncomfortable for her when Nassar reminds Roja of the soldiers who have sacrificed their lives in capturing Waseem Khan and how terrible the consequences of releasing him could be. Mani Ratnam’s forte is to infuse the most banal or seeming inconsequential of scenes with electricity. With this scene, he was able to take us, the audience, out of the trials and tribulations of Roja’s story and put in perspective the larger political picture without prescribing which side we should  choose. All it said was that Roja and Rayappa both had equally justifiable perspectives.

There were other aspects of the movie which have been much celebrated – the music, the songs moving the narrative forward, the cinematography, etc. These paved the way for much of the progress we see in Indian Cinema technically to this day. I will not say anything here that hasn’t already been said.

The rabble-rousing patriotism was a little problematic, although that is what everyone loved back in 1992. Liyakat’s change of heart, Rishi’s naïve speech about why terrorism and Pakistan are bad was a little abrupt and convenient. Liyakat studying in Coimbatore enabling him to speak Tamil was laughable as were Janakaraj and Rayappa’s rather convenient presence to inject Tamilian familiarity in unknown and hostile surroundings for Roja (this has been a problem in other Tamil and Mani Ratnam movies; Kaatru Veliyidai comes to mind  –  everyone working at a hospital in Kashmir can speak Tamil). Waseem Khan was very one note and the actor who played him (Shiva Rindani) wasn’t very good.

But none of this takes away from a movie which is as fresh in 2020 as it was in 1992. It wasn’t the first great Indian movie nor was it the last. I simply saw it when I was old enough to be able to appreciate better how good cinema could be when some effort and thought were put into presenting a good story on screen. Above all, I could talk to my neighbourhood bhelpuri wallah and my paati in Madras about something that I was sure both of them had enjoyed.

Adhisaya Kadhal: How I Learned to Love Good Tamil Cinema

I am a cinema fanboy who grew up in Matunga during the 80s and 90s. For the uninitiated, Matunga is a sleepy suburb in Bombay that was once the western-most bastion for Tamil Brahmins in India; it is still considered by many to be part of the holy triumvirate of Iyer suburbs along with Malleshwaram and Mylapore.

But despite my Tamil pedigree, the Aurora theatre near my house and my mother’s fondness for Balachander, Sivaji and Kamal movies, I made a conscious decision as a child to not like Tamil movies. My one painful memory of Tamil movies growing up was being forced to sit down and watch Samsaram Oru Minsaram and if that wasn’t enough, to be made to sit through the Hindi remake as well. Weirdly, like some variation on the Stockholm Syndrome, I am very fond of both the movies to this day. Oh, another Mother influence, I still play Malarnthum Malaratha to put myself to sleep.

I barely knew the language.  My mother would often ask me to not speak in Tamil when visiting Madras as it was too embarrassing for her and a surefire way for the Autokaaran (of the non-Baasha variety) to cheat us thinking we are outsiders. I had no one to talk to about Tamil films other than my mother; (my father was too much of a Bombaywallah having lived nearly all his life there), Rajiv Gandhi was killed by Tamilians so being a Tamilian wasn’t something you advertised freely (apologies for the sudden political reference, just watched VadaChennai again). But above all, like my father, I was so much in love with the idea of Bombay that I renounced Rajini in favor of Amitabh.

The 90s/00s struck and, in the realm of my tastes, Amitabh gave way to Aamir and his brand of “sensible” cinema and Govinda with his brand of “nonsense” cinema (Shahrukh and Salman typically worked in the kind of cinema that I have never and don’t ever want to watch). But somewhere after graduating I became a snob about my movies; I think mainly arising out of a vain desire to impress girls, I started watching a lot of English movies. It started with the standard Hollywood fare (Die Hard., Home Alone, etc.) to moving on to more “intelligent” English cinema (the kind that won Oscars), somewhere the vanity surpassed actually enjoying the movies. I still remember how proud I was at having watched Terrence Mallick’s The Thin Red Line FDFS when it released in India. I can’t tell you what happens in the movie, which, for all I know, could have been about painting a thin red line (it was that boring) without referring to Wikipedia; but the pride, that I remember very clearly.

A few years later, I came to the US,  my movie snobbery intact, I discovered Netflix and the US public library system in the good old pre-streaming series days and consumed a lot of international and Indian art house cinema – the kind that you don’t see at the Oscars but in more French sounding festivals – quite a bit of which I genuinely loved (Ray, Kurosawa, Kusturica, Fellini, Chan Wook Park), but some that I pretended to love and understand for the sake of appearing cool and serious (Godard, Bergman). I remember the day I endured 90 minutes of Godard’s Breathless to impress a girl who had claimed that movie as her favorite. The premise of a guy murdering a cop and looking to make a getaway made for an interesting plot, but all the movie entailed was a couple (both of whom played by actors named Jean) speaking non-stop in French for 90 minutes and all I can say is that the girl (both in the movie and in real life) wasn’t impressed and I lost 90 minutes of my life which I can never get back.

Eventually I got tired of watching boring movies and consumed a lot of TV shows – again some were really good – The Wire, Breaking Bad, True Detective (Season 1 only just so people don’t question my judgment)) others I just watched because of peer pressure and being able to have informative water cooler conversations e.g. Game of Thrones.

It took me a while to get out of my snobbery, the onset of middle age and having kids reduced my general insecurity and vanity and also more importantly cut down a lot of content I could watch anyway (bills to pay, work and making sure nothing on screen can influence kids badly can reset priorities like nothing else). My wife loved Indian film music and despite not being Tamilian, she introduced me to a lot of good Tamil music which I wasn’t aware of. It was during this course of listening to Tamil film music that I came across 3 individuals who forever changed my view on Tamil Cinema and made it a world exciting enough for me to plunge headlong into.

Santhosh Narayanan:

My wife first introduced me to the music of Santhosh Narayanan. It was a song which got me to watch a Tamil movie first on my own without my mother telling me to – the song being Kaasu-Panam-Thuttu-Money. The catchy beats, the lyrics which even a Tamil illiterate like me could understand, the voice of Ganabala and Anthony Dasan and above all the siren sound on repeat made the song so infectious that it was on a constant loop on my YouTube playlist.  Then when I saw the video, I fell in love with how the song was staged, especially the red sneakers the dancers wore, and I decided to watch the movie – Soodhu Kavvum. Hopefully, for those readers who know Tamil cinema, I don’t need to say anything more, for those who don’t, please watch it ASAP (it’s on Amazon Prime).

I love Santhosh Narayanan unlike any other musician or music director in the country. If you ask me who is my favorite, I will still say AR Rahman. But my love for Santhosh is different.

Typically, with other music composers, I listen to their music independent of their movies. But with Santhosh, the song and the movie are so symbiotically intertwined that I can’t imagine liking one without liking the other. For example, when I listen to Naan Yaar (from Pariyerum Perumal), Kathir’s anguish is imprinted in my head and the movie plays out painfully and beautifully every time I listen to the heart-rending sorrow of the song.

He is probably the only Indian Music Composer who is most committed to putting the movie ahead of his music but then puts all of his soul into helping the director narrate the story better through his music (Besides Pariyerum Perumal, I love Attakathi, Kaala, Madras, Pizza, Jigarthanda, pretty much all of his work and the movies associated with those works).  More importantly, in terms of my journey to being a Tamil cinema Geek, I have Santhosh to thank for enticing me to watch the movies he gave such beautiful music for and for introducing me to some pretty special filmmakers – Nalan Kumaraswamy, Karthik Subbaraj, Mari Selvaraj, Pa Ranjith, etc. that I wouldn’t have sought out if the music hadn’t been so fantastic.

Vijay Sethupathi:

I needed an actor to root for (much like I had rooted for Amitabh all those years back) and as soon as I saw Soodhu Kavvum, I knew I had found the one. My favorite scene from the movie is when Vijay Sethupathi or Das chastises his imaginary girlfriend for dressing in a swimsuit in front of his friends (just for chutzpah alone, I will rate that among my top 3 scenes in cinema). I don’t need to spend a lot of time on Vijay Sethupathi, the actor (lots of more qualified people have written about his talent). For me Vijay Sethupathi features on my post because he has been the hook on which I have watched a lot of interesting content coming out of Tamil cinema.

To me it’s because of Vijay Sethupathi that talented writer / filmmakers are willing to put forth story-oriented films knowing they have a bankable star to market their vehicle to investors and distributors. This makes Tamil cinema exciting today and hopefully for a long time to come in the future. Hopefully, Vijay Sethupathi is the first of many “mass” stars to help promote the cause of story-oriented films. So liking Vijay Sethupathi seemingly ensured my interest in Tamil cinema. Watching his movies made me want to explore what people / critics thought about him as well as explore other content in Tamil cinema that people loved for all the right reasons. This led me to the third individual I credit with my Tamil cinema asai.  

Baradwaj Rangan:

My first exposure to Baradwaj Rangan was his interview of Santhosh Narayanan before the release of VadaChennai and I was a pleasantly puzzled, this wasn’t a traditional celebrity interview, it focused a lot on Santhosh’s craft but yet gave me an insight into Santhosh that I found very consistent with his music. Then I started consuming a lot of Baradwaj Rangan content even if I didn’t agree with his opinion. Reading Baradwaj’s reviews and interviews provided me with an expression of the science behind why I liked or disliked certain movies or certain aspects in certain movies besides expanding my knowledge of not so popular movies that were worth the watch. His book “Conversations with Mani Ratnam” is something I will wholeheartedly recommend to any cinephile, it’s easy to read with great elucidations on the science of filmmaking with conversations on some of the most loved gems in Indian cinema (I especially loved the chapter on Agni Natchatiram). Basically, with Baradwaj Rangan, I learned why particular kinds of movies move me in very objective terms.

I credit the Ask BR series with the discussion on older movies with rekindling my love with Tamil movies I remember from my childhood. His discussion on Thevar Magan and Michael Madana Kama Rajan, have made me reevaluate the genius of Kamal Haasan in a different and more positive light. Although he has recommended Bergman’s Winter Light in FC recco, I will not hold that against him (maybe in my evolution there is still place for Bergman and Godard!).

Thanks to these three individuals I have become the veritable Colonel Kurtz to my north Indian and non-Indian friends when it comes to Tamil cinema. No more Thanos or Rahul or even good old Vijay (from the Amitabh movies, just so you aren’t confused), I only seek Shilpa and Berlin!  

I am so committed to the craft of Tamil cinema watching that I have binge-watched all of Selvaraghavan’s movies and all of Myskkin movies over weekends taking only time out to change my kid’s diapers and feed them and put them to sleep. You might think that I am a loser and that my wife should leave me. Well she won’t, because she is an amazing person and YES, I do feel bad but not because my weekends are wasted, but that I wasted so much time watching Terence Mallick and Godard when I could have been enjoying Mysskin and Selvaraghavan.