An artists afternoon...

OVERVIEW: This is a story, which takes place on a hot Chennai afternoon…

With great care, Anwar bent forward and adjusted the ear-ring on her left ear. He hoped she would smile at him, but she didn’t. Instead she kept staring ahead, a cold expression in her eyes, lips set in a tight line.

He gazed admiringly at her pink cheeks, the full lips and the dark eyelashes which gave her face that dreamy, just-been-kissed look. Then, after a couple of idle minutes, suddenly conscious of the task at hand, he dabbed deftly below her chin and under the ears, smoothening the layers of face-paint. And as he moved his cotton sponge over her lips, he felt the admiring eyes of the crowd on him.

The pride swelled within him. After all, who wouldn’t admire him, who wouldn’t envy him – painting the lips of Divya Malini, the goddess of the South Indian film industry?

His mind started to wander. Even as his hands moved adeptly in their trained trajectories, he slowly became engrossed in his own thoughts and memories…

It was around ten years ago, he remembered, though not entirely sure of it. An entire film crew had landed in his village in Ottappalam. The news had trickled down to his school, on a sleepy summer afternoon, the air pregnant with ennui. The news suddenly transformed the day; he dashed across the school compound, jumped over the wall to escape the blue-suited, betel-chewing school-peon, scurried through the lush green paddy-fields and reached the Panchayat president’s huge bungalow where the shooting was planned.

There were two remnant memories of the day…

The first – he had had a bloody shoulder, the result of jumping over a barbed fence. He had cut himself badly. Anwar stopped applying the make-up and felt the scar on his right shoulder. It was still there, just above his polio injection mark, the skin there having hardened with time.

The second – there was a half-sari clad, debutante girl of fourteen who was playing the heroine’s childhood. She hadn’t become Divya Malini yet; she was some young girl, whose only claim to fame was a photograph of her which had appeared on the cover page of a local daily, which, fortunately for her, the director had found time to peruse through.

Few had expected her to be christened Divya Malini in five to six years (after the runaway success as a heroine, she was named after the yesteryear super-heroine of the same name), fewer had expected her to become the highest paid heroine in the whole of South India. Anwar hadn’t too.

Neither had he imagined these, nor had he imagined that he would be brushing her cheeks with his fingers on a similar hot summer afternoon, ten years later.

He could still remember the pangs of envy which he had felt towards the boy, of his same age, who played the childhood of the hero. They had a song together, in which they ran across the paddy fields, chased each other around trees and most irritatingly, the guy would sit with her on a swing and lip-sync for a song which blared away in the background.

For one month, he had kept on skipping school with more regularity than he had ever attended it, bribing his sister with stolen ice-candy so as to not tell his misdeeds to their mother. He loitered around the shooting premises, stealing furtive glances at the girl in the arc lights, fruitlessly imagining that she was doing the same at him too. While at the same time, his classmates at school were busy submitting their tenth standard exam applications and devouring their text-books like crazy.

As for Anwar, he was bitten by the film bug. He wasn’t sure whether it was the arc lights or whether it was Divya Malini, but he was bitten alright.

He didn’t write the exams that year. And for that matter, he didn’t ever since.

Anwar looked at her face again. She still had the same expression on her face, though her cheeks were slightly more illuminated by the sun which was now at its highest and hottest. With his sponge, Anwar carefully brushed away the specks of dust which had gathered on her forehead.

It could be nothing but a coincidence of the extreme degree; Anwar thought to himself, that at all the critical junctures in his life, this girl should always be present.

After his skipped tenth-standard examination which effectively dashed the dreams of his mother that her son would acquire a good education and would relieve her of the hardships of her labor, he had spent two worthless years as a painter and makeup man in a drama troupe, which spent much more than it earned. A born artist, he perfected his craft at the troupe.

But, the troupe-owner went absconding one fine morning, leaving his employees and money-lenders alike, agape in dismay.

Then he had boarded a train to Chennai, loitered around Kodambakkam, the Tamil film hub, doing this job and that, for quite some time. He had work on one day, and none on the next two, but something, maybe the proximity to the film world, kept him afloat. Life had been going on in this fashion when the shooting of the movie “Kondayil Thazhampoo” commenced in Kodambakkam. The movie starred the reigning super-star with a new face as the heroine. His heart jumped into his mouth when he saw the heroine; the girl had now become a woman, a far cry from the starry eyed fourteen-year old who had come to his village years back.

His heart had fluttered a bit more than normal, maybe because of the habitual drinks he took that morning – there was a scuffle as he tried to break the ring (for what, Anwar couldn’t comprehend later, in hindsight). The end result was that one of the security guards sustained a flat nose and a black-eye. It didn’t end there; Anwar landed four months in jail for assault with intent to murder. The law enforcement wasn’t as strict as it would usually be, because of the timely intervention of a priest whom Anwar had earlier befriended at a drama in the city.

What it eventually did was that, no one was interested in employing him anymore. The once in three days work cycle dwindled to once in a month or even less, and it was a miracle that he kept himself alive.

It must be third-time-lucky, Anwar now thought to himself, as he neatly touched up her hair, done up into a parrot-shape at the back of her head, the eyes of the parrot adorned with golden beads. This new job was the courtesy of an old time friend from his village who had struck gold in Kodambakkam, who had a major share in a film production company and even owned the franchisee of the biggest jewelry group in the state. He had hired him, on the promise of no further misbehavior. After a few minor touch-up works, this was the first stand-alone assignment that he got his hands on.

He had done a neat job, he reckoned, but the persistent dissatisfaction on her face kept on rankling him. He looked askance at her, with a critical eye, and then with a sudden glitter in his eyes, picked up his brush and sponge. Bending down on his knees, by her side, he did a sudden, expert waft at the sides of her either cheek. He stood up victoriously – Divya Malini was smiling now, though haughtily, her eyes affixed far away.

Then, turning back, Anwar nodded at two lean, dark men who had been standing impatiently beside him all the time, smoking.

As they came near, Anwar backed away, and, as he watched, Divya Malini slowly rose upwards, steadily, towards the sky.

Packing up his tools, and slinging them over his shoulder in a grey duffel bag, Anwar walked back slowly, pocketed his fees – five hundred rupees – which was the highest that he had received in quite some time.

The two men on the ground, who were standing beside him all this while, looked upwards questioningly, the muscles on their forearms straining as they tugged at the ropes which hoisted a blue billboard upwards, as two men from the top of the scaffolding shouted back – “Enough, Enough.” Then they affixed the billboard with ropes, on top of the scaffolding.

A wistful smile played on Anwar’s lips as he looked upwards over his shoulders at his just-completed painting – Divya Malini, smiling, sitting smugly atop a blue billboard, which advertised “Lakshmana Jewellers”, the biggest jewelry group in the state.

I dedicate this to: All the underachieving artists out there…

(Originally posted in www.passionforcinema.com)

For all the unlucky Pinkys

Prologue:

This year, Smile Pinki (by Megan Mylan) got an Oscar for best short documentary. It was about a poor girl, Pinki, who got her cleft lip surgically corrected, thereby saving her from a lifetime of ridicule and ostracism.

http://passionforcinema.com/smile-pinki-2009-and-dr-murari-mukherji-a-pioneer-of-cleft-lip-and-palate-surgery-in-india/

Though I had felt incredibly happy for Pinki, I couldn’t help feel for similar people who are less lucky, being born with such a defect and having to live their entire lives with that tag attached to them.

The stronger ones survive and even become success stories but the not-so-strong ones, sometimes fall by the wayside. I have tried to capture one such story here, in the format of a short film. A ten minute one may be.

[scrippet]

Scene-1

It’s dark inside the room. Early dawn. A siren goes off, somewhere in the distance. Roopa sits up, her hair all ruffled, eyes groggy.

The mini-calendar on the wall says 24^th June. Her eyes fall on it and a forlorn look creases her face.

She reaches over and takes the mirror, and looks into it. While looking, she runs her finger over the mirror, over her reflection.

The finger moves, slowly, over the mirror. Over the eyebrows, the nose, the cheeks, finally coming to rest over her lip.

It’s a cleft lip. And it looks hideous. She tosses the mirror away with a violent sleight of the hand and then falls back onto the bed, looking up at the ceiling fan.

The camera zooms in onto her face. Then the frame fades out.

Cut

Scene-2 A

Intended to be a flash-back. To be shot accordingly. In a sepia tone, maybe. Scenes 2A,28 and 2C need to have a smooth transition between them. I’d need to work on that .

A school assembly. Around five hundred children sit on the steps of the assembly court, looking at a cleft-lipped girl standing in front of the mike, making a speech. She is extremely self conscious; her hands occasionally come up to shield her lips. She forgets the speech, and fidgets around clumsily, evoking stray laughter from the crowd.

The laughter ripples louder as she says “Thank you” and walks off, inadvertently tripping over an electrical wire.

Once out of sight of the assembly ground, she runs off to the bathroom, covers her face in her palms and sobs uncontrollably.

Scene-2 B

Again in flash-back. A wedding function. A noisy song blares out in the background. People scurry around busily.

The frame focuses on a photographer, moving his hands animatedly, and instructing people to stand in place. Roopa is one among the group of brightly-attired, bubbly, adolescent girls who pose for the photograph. Rustle of silk. Jingle of bangles.

A middle aged lady, her mother, watches from the side, along with some other women of her age. Just when the kids are all set for the shot, she gesticulates to Roopa vigorously : Not to smile too much, so that the lip remains inconspicous.

The other girls glance at Roopa and suppress a giggle. The smile vanishes from Roopa’s face. She self-consciously bites her upper lip, so as to hide it from view. Now she looks normal. Painfully normal.

There is a camera click as the scene freezes in a photographic frame.

Scene-2 C

This is the last flash-back scene.

“I don’t want to marry him” Roopa shouts tearfully. “I will stay here. I don’t want to get married.”

Then she storms into her room, slams the door behind her and throws herself onto the bed.

From inside her room, she dejectedly listens to a conversation. Her Mom and Dad are talking.

“She is right. Isn’t the man too old?”

“So what? There is one more girl younger to her. Shouldn’t we be thinking of her too? Listen Indira,” her Dad says, lowering his tone to a hush, “we won’t get many better proposals. Let us go ahead with this.”

“My daughter’s plight, my God…” Mom was wailing now, trying to keep her voice down.

Roopa buries her face into the pillow.

Cut

Scene 3

Back to Roopa’s room. Camera once again focuses on the calendar on the wall. Daylight has now started peeping in. Roopa is still asleep and now holds a framed photograph which she hugs close to her chest.

She hugs it tighter and starts crying. “I am happy for you…” she says, sobbing, eyes still closed.

The sobs become louder by the minute. And soon becomes hysterical.

A woman comes up to her and shakes her.

“Roopa, get up” she says, looking around cautiously, shaking her shoulder in the process. The hysterical wailing continues unabated.

Then there is a creak, the sound of the door opening. The reverberating tap-tap of high-heeled shoes is the only sound now. The woman standing near Roopa now tiptoes back to her bed, with furtive glances to and fro.

Two sets of hands hold Roopa by the shoulder and press her down.

A syringe needle slowly presses into her veins as she slowly becomes still, as the tap-tap of the shoes slowly fades away. The camera stays on Roopa who now lies still, with her back to the camera.

Cut

Scene 4

The tapping of the shoes is still in the background, connecting this scene to the previous one.

Two uniform-clad nurses walk together in a corridor. It is clear now that they are in a ward of a hospital. One nurse is middle aged while the other is young and evidently new to the service. She is obviously curious about Roopa.

“That lady, what’s her problem?”

“Chronic case of depression. She was admitted two years back.”

“Oh…”

Cut

Scene 5

The interaction between the nurses, their conversation continues in the background.

The camera is trained on Roopa. It focuses first on her, sleeping, unconscious.

“Today is her kid’s birthday”, says the middle aged nurse.

“Where is the kid now, is it a boy or girl?”

“It was a girl. She tried to kill herself, along with the kid…but she alone survived. ”

“Oh, God…”

“It was then that her family had admitted her here. Poor thing.”

“ Ok, it’s time for me to go home. See you tomorrow evening then.”

“Bye.” They bid good-bye, their footsteps go distant…

Scene 6 A

Then the camera focuses on the photograph that she is holding. It is the photo of her baby girl, taken when it was around two months old.

The camera zooms on to the photograph. The film ends with the baby’s face in the frame.

The baby too, has a cleft lip.

Cut

Dedicated to all the unlucky souls forced into a lifetime of insult, self-pity and depression by the thoughtless comments of the society on disabilities that they are born with and can do nothing about.

(Originally posted in www.passionforcinema.com)

A tale of two women

Intro: Female centric plots fascinate me. Unfailingly. So, when I landed this idea, about the chance meeting of two women, courtesy a conversation with one of my lady friends, it was irresistible. So much so that, I wrote it down, straightaway. It was then that I wondered if it couldn’t be made into a short film, and hence this article…

A disclaimer: This isn’t the script. It’s a write-up as to how I visualize the whole episode in mind. It would take some real good acting from the lead actors to bring out the emotional turmoil within…

How I visualize the plot, if it’s filmed: Indu, thirty-five, a mother of two, recollects an unforgettable experience to Athira, one of her close friends, as they take a walk together. The story would unfold in a flashback. The linear narrative would be occasionally punctuated by voice-overs, as the thoughts in her mind – the judgments and observations that she makes (or had made then) – are aired out aloud, in conversation to Athira.

Over to Indu, and as she starts the narration, triggering off the flashback.

The narrative: I tapped on, incessantly, at the call history button on our telephone. She had called around afternoon on the previous day, I remembered. I wasn’t fully sure that it was her, but I had got a hunch, as I listened to my mother-in-law talking over the phone. Gaurav’s granddad had passed away the previous week after a prolonged illness, and she was attending a condolence call from someone, in response to the obituary news in the local daily.

Should have been a local mobile number, I thought to myself, squinting, poring over the caller-id list on the telephone. One number caught my eye. Local, mobile number. I dialed. A guy with a deep, booming voice picked up the phone and snapped at me, in response to my question whether I could get Maya on the line. Slamming the receiver back onto the cradle, I continued my search.

Soon, I found another number. This had to be it, I realized; there weren’t any other calls received the day before. I noted the number down, and dialed, this time from my cell. For quite some time, the phone kept ringing.

The fact that I was getting tense surprised me. Then, a soft, mature female voice answered.

“Maya?” I asked. There was an unmistakable tremor in my voice.

“Yes. Who is this?”

Confused, still pleasant. I could feel the smile in her voice.

“It’s Indu”, I said. “Indu, Neryamangalath.” I was sure that our family name would ring the right bells.

“Oh!” The calmness suddenly disappeared. Then a stunned silence. A barrage of questions ensued.

“I can’t believe… How did you get my number? Where are you now? At home? Or at Gaurav’s place?”

“Am at Gaurav’s”, I said, “Maya, could we meet up?” I hadn’t planned on that, but somehow, it was my heart which seemed to be talking.

“I…” she stammered, “No Indu, I am a bit busy, have to fetch the kids, maybe another time…”

“Oh Maya. Just take some time off can you? I will wait for you.”

She mumbled incoherently in reply, vacillating for a while.

“Ok, I’ll wait for you, at CCD.” I said.

“Which CCD?”

“The one near the bus station. I will wait for you. At Three in the evening.”

“Ok, I’ll try to come. But I can’t be sure…”

I hung up and called Vinay and Anuja who came bounding up towards me. “We are going out, kids. Get dressed up.”

“Where to, Mummy?”

“We’ll go have ice-cream”. I called out to the kids who were already running off to their room, eager to go out, “Get ready fast. And don’t care to explain to anyone where we are going or whom we are meeting.”

“Ok Mummy”, they shouted back.

******

A five minutes drive and we were waiting at Café Coffee Day, the three of us. To my surprise, I found myself perspiring, in spite of the cool evening air; a strange tension seemed to hang in the air. The kids sat next to me, oblivious to my mental escapades, contentedly munching into their Chocó bars.

I kept watching out of the window, wondering how she would look like, trying to picture her in my mind. I had never seen her yet, not even a photo. I was even thinking whether she would go back on her word, when my cell phone rang.

******

It was Maya. “Indu…I have reached here. Am standing near the door.”

Just as we were talking I spotted her. She should be around forty, I guessed. One or two stray strands of hair stood out on her scalp. She had aged gracefully. Even in the chiffon saree, which though very plain, was meticulously wrapped, she looked graceful. I wondered how she might have looked around ten years before. She should have been strikingly beautiful, I realized.

Then both of us looked away, involuntarily. It was becoming more difficult than what I had expected; even to look at each other. She came up and sat beside us, self-consciously pecking the kids’ cheeks, asking them their names. As I watched her, I couldn’t help comparing myself with her – it’s something that I never do, but somehow, I found myself doing just that. And I felt a pang of jealousy whizz through me. I rebuked myself.

The kids wandered away, leaving us alone at the table. She was looking at me now.

“Indu, how did you get my number?”

“I guessed it might be you. I was in the room, while Mom was attending your call. It was a hunch…”

“I feel so happy now…”, she started off. The voice held a lot of poise. “I never expected we would talk. Ever. I really don’t know what to say.”

I smiled back. “I never really thought you would turn up too. Calling you up was a spur of the moment thing.”

“How are your parents doing?” she asked.

“They are fine. Just some age-related problems.” I said. “You have a daughter, isn’t it?”

“Yes, and a son”, she said. “Anuja looks just like Gaurav.”

I smiled. “He says she looks like me.”

“Where’s he now?” she asked. “Is he at home?”

“No, he is back in Oman . He couldn’t manage to extend the leave, so had to go back last week.”

There was a pause again. We just sat facing each other, unsure of what to say next.

“Maya”, I said. “Keep in touch. Will you?”

“I wanted to. I always think of that, but somehow, I could never bring myself to call you up. I am sorry. Maybe we’ll see each other more, from now. Maybe this is a beginning.”

“I don’t have many friends here. I really hope we will keep in touch.” I said. And I meant it; being born and brought up in Bangalore, I didn’t have many close friends worth mentioning in my native place.

Then she shocked me. “Isn’t it Gaurav’s birthday today?”

“Yes, it is”, I said. “And yours is day after tomorrow, isn’t it?” Now it was her turn to be stunned.

“How did you know it?” she asked, the surprise not leaving her eyes. Then she turned, looked out of the window, the sunlight painting patterns on her cheeks. She looks amazingly beautiful, I thought.

“One second, excuse me”, I said, as I got up from the table. She didn’t seem to notice, and continued staring outside, lost in thought.

******

Then I rang up Gaurav. “Gaurav, where are you?” I enquired.

“Am in office, where are you? Somewhere outside? Vinay and Anuja seem to be there with you…?”

“Yes they are here with me. We are at Café Coffee Day. By the way, Happy Birthday!”

“He he”, Gaurav laughed. His typical, lazy, laidback laugh. “I just forgot all about it. Thanks Indu!”

“As if you remember always! You would never remember if it wasn’t for me”, I said complainingly. “And guess what? I have a surprise for you today.”

“Hmm. Surprise? What’s it? Now Indu, don’t kid around, tell me fast, I’ve got a meeting coming up.”

“Someone is with me now. Just a minute.” I said, trying to keep the bubbling excitement out of my voice.

I suddenly handed the phone over to Maya, who, was now totally taken aback. She took the phone hesitantly from me, pressed it against her ear and muttered weakly.

“Hello… Gaurav? It’s me.”

There was a long pause at the other end, I guess. Silence. Maya sat looking at me, blankly. Then she handed the phone back to me.

“He didn’t recognize my voice”, she said with a smile. But though she smiled, I could see and feel the hurt which simmered beneath.

I took the phone from her. “Gaurav, it’s her. Maya. Maya Devi.”

Silence again. There was a sudden spurt of questions, breaking the silence, as the recollection dawned upon him. “What? How on earth…” He was now fumbling for words, unable to cope with the sudden shock. Then I gave the phone back to Maya, who now was even more hesitant than before.

“Come on, speak, he is still on the line”, I said reassuringly.

She just sat there, pressing the receiver against her ear, her hands trembling visibly. I smiled as I pictured Gaurav, sitting in his office, his typically deadpan expression disturbed by this sudden, unexpected turn of events.

Gaurav had told me about his love affair with Maya even before our marriage, during our courtship days itself. Though Gaurav’s family was more or less ready for the marriage, her family wasn’t ready to give her in marriage to a businessman and that too, one who was abroad. Instead, they had married her off to a college lecturer, who was ten years older than her.

It used to irritate me to no end, I remember. The passion with which Gaurav spoke about her. The unintentional excitement which used to ripple in his voice then. That sickening, sickening feeling that I was the second love would never leave me, in spite of however strongly Gaurav rubbished the idea. But slowly, as the years wore on, I had grown to accept it. That it would never affect us, and that it was indeed a closed chapter.

As I watched, both of them slowly recovered and finally managed to put some perfunctory greetings together. The tension which creased her face relaxed. Then as they hung up, I noticed her voice crack, ever so slightly.

She then handed back the phone to me and got up, glancing nervously at her wrist watch, hurriedly adjusting her saree pallu. She bid a quick good-bye to us, affectionately patting the cheeks of Vinay and Anuja in the process. And as she walked out of the coffee shop and turned back to face me, smiling, I saw a stray tear brimming over in her eyes.

I still cannot explain what exactly I had felt then. I was overwhelmed. Words came up, choked and died in my throat. A heavy cloud descended over my chest. But nothing came out. In spite of all that raged within, everything about me would have appeared perfectly normal, I believe.

And all I did, as she left from the coffee shop, was to just smile and wave her good-bye, and watched her walk away, hurriedly cross the road, tugging at her saree and disappear into the madding crowd.

******

PS: I dedicate this post to the one and only Padmarajan, and the trio of Jayakrishnan, Radha and Clara, from the timeless classic, Thoovanathumbikal.

(For more info on Thoovanathumbikal, go to: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thoovanathumbikal)

Originally published on www.passionforcinema.com

Randamoozham - Bhima and the lady characters in his life..

Prologue: I recently finished reading Randaamoozham (The second turn) by the celebrated author, M.T.Vasudevan Nair. Narrated from the perspective of Bhîma, the book shatters many age-old myths that we have grown up hearing. Though MT hasn’t tampered with the story-line, he, as he himself said, has tried to understand the pregnant silences that Vyasa had left behind without explicit explanation. I have read the book four times in all, and it leaves me stunned to bits, every single time.

M.T.Vasudevan Nair has also penned the script for the national award winning ‘Oru Vadakkan Veeragatha’ which received both commercial success and critical acclaim. In that story too, MT glorified the character Chanthu, who, in Kerala folklore, is a most treacherous and despicable villain, who defies the very ethics of warfare with his cunning treachery. With MT’s unique treatment, myths were shattered and Chanthu was transformed to a chivalrous, tragic hero, with his own tragic flaws; his much maligned actions now presented in a hitherto unseen light. The effort was supplemented by a brilliant performance from Mammootty, who too won the national best actor award for his portrayal of Chanthu.

Similarly, Bhîma, the more ridiculed and unsung among the Pandavas, receives a heroic shade to his character in this book. It’s through his eyes that each character is presented. The characters are humanized a lot more; they become ordinary mortals, shedding the supernatural shades that are attached to them in the stories that we have grown up hearing.

I recently wondered why Randaamoozham too, couldn’t be made into a film. Such an enormous epic to be fitted into a two and half hour movie would take some planning. The casting, with each role requiring tremendous histrionic expertise, would also have to be spot on.

What I have tried to do here is to draw a sketch here some scenes of Bhima, with the main lady characters, their relationships with him being the common thread which binds the story together. This article is just intended to give the readers a feel of the whole theme; of the unique ambience which is created in the novel.

Draupadi: An extremely beautiful and strong willed heroine, whom Arjuna wins over at a Swayamvara. Though she is wife to all the five Pandavas, her first passion has always been Arjuna. We see this trait of her character through Bhima’s observations - whenever her eyes light up at the very mention of his name, one such scene being that of her first night with Bhima (The day when his turn, the Second Turn, begins).

Bhima looks on, ready for the first night of his turn, very modest decorations done at his abode, after Draupadi’s year-long honeymoon with Yudhishtira, the eldest of the Pandavas, has come to an end. That night, the Pandavas and Draupadi sit around the bonfire, as she listens wide-eyed to Arjuna, who incidentally has come home that evening after a brief hiatus. Later, at night, when Bhima moves close to her in bed, lust rippling through his veins, she dreamily mutters Arjuna’s name, lying sleepily by his side. Bhima, then gets up, goes out and makes his bed on bare ground and lies down, staring up at the star-lit sky. He would have none of her cold body tonight, Bhima decides, when her mind dreams about Arjuna, even while she is beside him in bed.

On yet another occasion, she mentions her desire to wear the Sougandhika flowers, famous for their heavenly perfume, in her hair. Though Bhima gets the flowers from a heavily guarded pond after a minor adventure, he gets caught and is kept captive by King Kubera. It’s only after the arrival of his brothers and Draupadi that Bhima is released. Though it is an occasion to be embarrassed, Bhima proudly hands out the flowers to Draupadi, but she tosses it away disdainfully and later, when they walk past, the Sougandhika flowers lie, soiled and crumpled on the ground (This is purely the author’s innovation), a beautiful symbol of rejected love.

Draupadi always looks up to Bhima as a protector and someone who would grant even her extreme desires. Bhima realizes after a rare romantic rendezvous with Draupadi, when she pleads him to go instead of Arjuna to fight King Jarasandha, a formidable opponent, in a wrestling bout, that the lure of romance was just a bait. To her, Bhima is always the man who loves her unconditionally, someone who could be emotionally swayed with the slightest gesture of love.

Her pledge to let her hair loose, till it becomes wet with Dusshasana’s blood is yet another indication of her trust in Bhima. It is a trust which borders on the attitude towards a devoted servant. Bhima, during the war, tears open Dusshasana’s chest, in an action unbecoming of a Khshatriya and returns to smear Draupadi’s hair with his blood. Could there be any more that a lover could do? Could there be a sweeter revenge? Yes, it had to be Bhima, when it came to satisfying Draupadi’s most unreasonable whims.

The whole relation is captured in a nutshell, in the final scene, during Swargarohana, when the Pandavas ascend the path to heaven. They walk, in the order of seniority, with Draupadi behind them. Then Bhima hears a rustle of clothes, a sigh and a faint thud behind. Draupadi has fallen by the wayside.

Then Yudhishtira says, “She has sinned, she has loved Arjuna the most amongst us, instead of seeing all her five husbands with the same eye. That’s why she has fallen. Do not turn back, do not fret, and keep walking. Erasing worldly memories is a prerequisite for attaining heaven.” All of the brothers obey him, not turning back to look at their beloved wife.

Now comes the author’s classic intervention, a detour from the original storyline, raising Bhima’s love to a feeling bordering on ultimate, selfless submission. Ultimate submission, they say, is the highest degree of love; which is why; in poems and songs the woman whom one loves is often compared to a Goddess.

Bhima stops, ignores his brother’s wise words, turns back, walks up to Draupadi, bends down next to her and cups her face in his palms. She looks up at him, smiles, turns her head away and breathes her last. Peacefully. In Bhima’s arms.

Hidimbi: First wife to Bhima, the sister of Hidimba who was a Kiratha (a primitive aboriginal tribe, with enormous physical strength, who inhabit the jungle) whom Bhima slays in a jungle duel. Dusky, voluptuous, tall and bold, Hidimbi brings with her, womanhood with all its wild, unbridled sensuality.

Her character is brief, but in the context of what is to unfold, assumes immense significance. Bhima’s first taste of a woman, like many other Khshatriyas, is a devdasi in their palace, but the encounter leaves him unmoved. He even wonders aloud whether the much celebrated Bhima cannot satisfy even a mere woman.

But when he meets Hidimbi in the jungle, gets to know her and subsequently makes love to her, he is aroused to a degree which he has never thought himself capable to be. Bhima wonders whether the existing definitions of a woman’s capabilities in bed wouldn’t be enough to describe the fire of passion that Hidimbi aroused within him. He later marries her and introduces her to his mother and brothers. He then sees a glint of shock in Kunthi’s eyes, a shock which he alone notices. (This scene, the shock in Kunti’s eyes, is also a detour from the original storyline, but in hindsight, is one of the scenes in the whole novel which is plotted with inimitable foresight.)

They live together for a few days, after which Bhima and Hidimbi part, when the Pandavas have to leave the jungle to a nearby village. She is pregnant with his child, Bhima’s first child, Khadolkacha who arrives years later as their savior during the Kurukshethra war. They part, with Bhima kissing Hidimbi’s forehead in farewell.

Years later, Bhima does come in search of her into the same forest in the pretext of a hunting trip, but never finds her. Though a Khshatriya by birth, Bhima’s first wife, his first orgasm, his first child has all been from the lowly Kiratha tribe. It is this attribute of his character that Hidimbi so beautifully symbolizes.

Kunthi: The mother to the Pandavas, she is often portrayed in stories as a weak woman, but here she comes across as a wise, shrewd and calculating lady. A frail, non-descript woman; she always takes Bhima by surprise with her quick thinking.

When Vidura, uncle to Pandavas, who is always much concerned about the welfare of the Pandavas, sends an encrypted message to them while they stay in a castle made for them by the Kauravas in the jungle, Kunthi is the one to decipher the message and sense that the castle is made of firewood and could be set fire in an instant. And later, when a Kiratha lady and her five sons come begging, on the night when the castle would be set fire to, while they plot their plans of escape, she amazes him again by welcoming the beggars in. Her untimely urge to serve the visitors with food and liquor irks her sons, but when they question her, she coolly quips, amazing Bhima to no end: “When they search for our bodies tomorrow, the charred bodies of this Kiratha lady and her five sons would mislead our enemies into thinking that we are dead. What can these visitors be, if not God’s gift in disguise?”

Later, when the Pandavas return home with Draupadi after Arjuna’s victorious Swayamvara, Yudhishtira shouts aloud to Kunthi who is inside the house. “Mother, see what bhiksha we have got today!”

She shouts from inside, without looking out, “Whatever the bhiksha may be, my children, you must share it among yourselves equally.”

Yudhishtira, who is always inclined towards dharma, suggests that they must not disobey their mother’s words, and hence Draupadi becomes destined to be the wife to all of them, from the eldest to the youngest, the turn changing with each year.

Later, Kunthi says to Bhima, who was vehemently of the opinion that Draupadi must belong to Arjuna and not to the five of them together: “I knew that the bhiksha was Draupadi. I saw lust in each eye that looked at her, even in the eyes of the youngest Sahadeva. My sons must never quarrel over a mere woman, hence my words.” Bhima struggles to look Kunthi in her eyes again during that night, wondering whether his mother could have spotted lust in his eyes too.

But the real bombshell comes after the Kurukshethra war, when Kunthi asks Yudhishtira to perform the last rites for Karna, who, she reveals, was her first son. Karna knew it, but the Pandavas hadn’t and Arjuna had killed him in the war. The Pandavas sink to the ground in despair when they hear the news, the most distraught being Arjuna, who had killed him using unfair means. Yudhishtira even curses womanhood as a whole on this occasion that they can never keep a secret to themselves again.

A visibly angry Bhima shouts at his mother, deriding her decision to keep Karna’s secret from them for so long. He recollects aloud his umpteen encounters with Karna, in each of which he had insulted Karna in public, by calling him Soothaputhra (Which means, son of a charioteer. It was a humble charioteer, Adhiratha, who raised Karna, after he was abandoned at birth by Kunthi. Karna has to hear this insult many a time in his life, at various critical junctures in his life, the most important one being Draupadi’s Swayamvara, when, on the verge of being successful, Karna was expelled from the Swayamvara because of his
parentage).

It is now, that MT pulls off another magnificent, stunning and the most important deviation from the epic’s original story-line:

Kunthi looks at Bhima and to his consternation, remarks, “Karna was a Soothaputhra indeed.” She continues coolly, “At sage Durvasa’s ashram, amongst all the hardships that I suffered there, it was a handsome Sootha (a charioteer) who showed me some care, some love. Karna was born to him.”

A stunned Bhima listens as she goes on, “Listen. Dharma is Vidura indeed. And Vidura is Yudhishtira”, thereby breaking the secret of Yudhishtira parentage too, which is attributed to Dharma, the God of Justice. When Bhima shouts in despair, “Then tell me! Who am I?”, her reply is similarly icy cold.

“I wanted my second son to be strong. Strong like an elephant. Then he came to me, from the deep forests. Like an unbridled, violent wind. A Kiratha with the strength of a thousand elephants. Bhima, you were born to him.”

To Bhima, who has grown up, muttering silent prayers to Vaayudeva (the God of Wind) who was said to be his father, by Kunthi herself and also by all the paean-singers who sang praises of the royal families; this was a shock which was too much to bear. His life-long arrogance at his physical strength, his confidence in Vaayudeva, who he has always believed would incessantly keep guarding over him, all becomes meaningless myths when faced with this cruel, humbling reality.

It is then that everything falls in place for the viewer. His first marriage with Hidimbi. The shock in Kunthi’s eyes when she first sees Hidimbi. Khadolkacha, his first child. His first hunting success, which unconventionally comes in the form of slaying a wild pig. His forays into the forest, which is a second home to him, unlike other Khshatriyas. His obsession with wrestling, considered to be a low-grade war form. His wild, animal instinct which comes to the fore when he tears open Dusshasana’s chest during war and even drinks his blood. Uncle Vidura’s obsessive attention towards the Pandavas. Everything. The legends that we have grown up hearing now lies astray, shattered into pieces.

Final thought: It is through these three women, that Bhima knows life. Every emotion that a man needs to know comes to him through them. Love. Romance. Despair. The layers of superhuman facets, attached to him and his fellow characters through age-old mythical tales peel off, gradually, during his interactions with them.

What we see in this adaptation of Mahabharata is not a legend that we have come to see many times on the small screen, but a group of beleaguered ordinary mortals, Bhima included, forced into helplessness by the cruel turns of fate.

There are a lot of other characters – the other Pandavas; Balandhara, his second wife; Visoka, the trusted charioteer; Karna, the wronged brother, Gandhari and Dhritharashtra, all of whom play more than significant roles in the story. Bhima comes across as a worthy central character, a fulcrum around which the whole tale can be woven. Maybe I could write a sequel to this article to elaborate on the other characters as well.

But the greatness of this adaptation by M.T is that it simplifies the Mahabharata. The characters and their actions are no longer arcane and mythical; their motives and secrets become clearer and more justified now, thanks to the unconventional genius of M.T. And this is the reason why, this adaptation could, and should, be made into a film. A film which would transform these characters into mere mortals, which would demystify the legends and which could alter the common man’s perspective of this magnificent epic. Maybe, for ever.


PS: Malayalees, who have not read the book yet, go get your copy of Randamoozham straightaway. Non-Malayalees, try to get the English translation of the book, titled ‘The second turn’ or shop for it online at:
http://www.amazon.com/Second-Turn-M-Vasudevan-Nair/dp/0333923243