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March 22, 2025

Bombay: Notes from a Burning House

_{This essay is part of the Pesum Padam – Mani Ratnam Retrospective Series and revisits Bombay. Watch the retrospective on youtube.}

It’s hard to say exactly when the house began to burn. Was it the moment Shaila Banu and Shekhar first exchanged glances on a quiet boat ride in Tirunelveli? Was it when their love, innocent and immediate, dared to cross the lines drawn by religion and community? Or did it begin much earlier, long before they ever met, in the simmering tensions of a country already primed to tear itself apart? Perhaps the fire was always there, just waiting. In Bombay, Mani Ratnam simply opens the windows and lets us see the smoke that had been gathering all along.

Bombay isn’t just a story about an interfaith marriage or communal riots. It’s about how quickly personal lives can be engulfed when the world around them starts to burn. Hatred spreads like fire from one home to the next, sometimes without warning. And yet, even in the middle of that fire, people still live. A mother still hopes her children will come home. A father still protects his family. Someone makes tea. Someone holds on to love. Bombay captures all of this in flickers and flames, and these moments, these notes, make up the soul of the film.

I don’t think I realized it the first time I watched Bombay. I was just a teenager then, but even back then it felt different. Now I see it might be Mani’s most accessible film. No, I don’t mean that in a simplified, watered-down way. It’s not a layered puzzle like Iruvar. It’s not as emotionally opaque as Kaatru Veliyidai. It’s not haunted by the abstract political messages of Dil Se. This one is direct. Straight to the heart. It hits you where you live because it feels like it’s happening next door.

When I sat down to rewatch Bombay as part of this retrospective, I was stunned by how much of it I remembered. Not just scenes, but feelings. That first glimpse of Manisha Koirala off the boat. That ridiculous disguise where Arvind Swamy wears a burqa. That rain-soaked street where a red bag becomes a symbol of pursuit. That gas cylinder explosion that tears through generations in a brief second. These aren’t just plot points. They’re lodged inside me, like memories of something I lived through, even though I didn’t.

It all begins with a glance. Just a glance across water in Tirunelveli. She arrives in a boat. He sees her. Her veil flutters in the breeze. Their eyes lock. Without a word, something is set in motion. Personal. Private. As if two strangers recognized in each other the possibility of everything.

The magic is in how Mani builds all this so quickly. I kept checking the timestamp. In just 76 minutes, he gives us a believable boy-meets-girl story in Tirunelveli, a conservative Hindu family clashing with a conservative Muslim one, a secret romance, a runaway marriage, a full relocation to Bombay, a pregnancy, a delivery of not one but two kids, a complete reset of their lives in a new city, and the emotional reality of pre-riot India. That’s not just efficient storytelling. That’s a screenwriting challenge for the ages. Try compressing all that without rushing and without losing the audience. Mani does it.

And the tone is a real feat. The first half is soft, romantic, full of rain and restraint. The second half is all tension and trauma. But the shift is seamless. You don’t feel the gears changing. You’re just pulled along, first by curiosity, then by dread. The emotional pacing is gentle, yet the narrative pacing is breakneck.

The tone shift from romance to riots is seamless on paper, but I have to admit the second half sometimes felt a bit rushed. Events escalate quickly as the city descends into chaos. While the emotional beats still land, I found myself momentarily pulled out of the film. Part of that came from recognizing the sets. The riot scenes, meant to portray the streets of Bombay, were clearly shot on the erected sets at the Campa Cola grounds in Guindy. The blinking SPIC company neon sign in the background gave it away. That single detail cracked the illusion for me. I kept wishing those sequences had been filmed on an actual location or at least built on a more convincing set. For a film that had felt so immersive and real until then, the artifice stood out.

This is also one of the few Mani Ratnam films that feels like it came from a place of urgency. You can sense it. There’s a fire under the camera. He mentioned that it was conceived as a documentary. Then it became a fiction film. Then it became Bombay. The decision to turn a child’s (or two) perspective of trauma into a full-blown family drama was instinctive. And it works.

Because what could have been a dry, preachy political film becomes something far more immediate. It’s not about ideas. It’s about people. It’s about a mother standing in a burnt-down house hoping her children will find their way back. It’s about two kids, Kamal and Kabir, who get doused in kerosene while a mob tries to figure out whether they’re Hindu or Muslim. It’s about a grandfather who shows up, despite everything he said before, just to see if his son is safe. These moments matter. These are the stakes.

And the acting. Arvind Swamy, to me, finds his full form in this film. In Thalapathi, he was barely there. In Roja, he was still young. But here, he’s a man. Not a masala hero, not a tragic lover, just a man trying to hold his family together. And Manisha Koirala? How do I even start? Mani extracts something extraordinary from her. She’s not loud. She’s not performative. But she’s entirely present. The mirror scene where she catches herself smiling and calls herself mad is quiet genius. Her confrontation with Nassar, asking, not pleading, whether he’s here to split her family, is a masterclass in control.

That two-minute exchange between Shaila Banu and Narayana Pillai is the kind of scene most directors would stretch into ten. They’d load it with music, with flashbacks, with tears. Mani gives you economy. One question. One look. One line. And everything is said.

I want to talk about the music because how can you not? This might be A.R. Rahman’s most versatile early score. The Bombay theme is a lullaby pretending to be a plea. It’s classy, international, and one for the history books.

For me, the pick of the album is Kannalane. Chitra’s voice carries the whole love story in a single breath. The chemistry between Shaila Banu and Shekhar in that song is unbelievable. That notorious one-legged jump, where he steps onto the pillar and springs back in sheer joy, is the physical embodiment of a heart bursting. It’s not a dance move. It’s happiness, the kind that follows the first realization of love. That entire song is built on a foundation of simple gum-sum-gum-sum-gum-pa-chak rhythm, layered with qawwali, Mapla folk tone, and inspiration from Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan. What follows is nothing short of a melodic explosion, one that hasn’t really stopped since 1995. Thirty years on, the momentum still feels like the beginning of something.

And then there is Humma Humma, also known as Antha Arabic Kadaloram. The version we first heard on cassette was already a revolution. Rahman’s own voice pulses over Middle Eastern percussion, stitched together with a rhythm that felt like Sufi rock, even though I didn’t yet have the words for it. But the film version gave us more. There was a nonsensical chant, shiganaa pagana pagana pagana bea pa that never appeared in the original album but lodged itself into my memory from the theater. Only around the 200th-day of the film, alongside Malarodu Malaringu, did that full version make it to tape. Around the 4:23 mark, the chorus begins to rise, and the song transforms into something electrifying. The Humma Humma chant arrives like a blast of air in a crowded room. It was unlike anything Tamil cinema had heard before. It became the anchor track that pulled me into the album and held me there long enough to discover the rest.

Even the editing choices here feel alive like the jittery cuts in Humma Humma, or the time-jump montages in Poovukkenna Pootu. Mani is always playing with rhythm, even visually. It’s not style. It’s syntax.

There are no perfect films, but this one comes dangerously close as a perfect Mani Ratnam film for me. It dares to compress so much pain, love, history, and humanity into one tight frame and never once loses its emotional clarity. There’s barely any comic relief, barely any “mass” moments. And yet, it was a hit. That’s the part people forget. Bombay was a critical success and a popular one. It ran for 200 days. It got banned and then reinstated in multiple countries. It was both an artistic gamble and a cultural event.

Yes, Mani lost some footage to the censors. We never saw the demolition scene as he shot it. But we still felt it through newspaper headlines, through the trembling of a mother, through the silence of a child.

Let me say this clearly: Bombay is not just Roja’s cousin, though I love that description. It’s its own creature. It stands alone because this is the film where Mani stopped flirting with politics and dove into it.

Years later, when I think of Mani’s filmography, this is the one I will point to when people ask, “Where should I start?” Not Alaipayuthey. Not Mouna Ragam. Not even Nayakan. I will point them to Bombay because this one feels real. Lived. Close.

So here it is. Bombay. Not his most complex film. Not his flashiest. But maybe his bravest.

You don’t watch Bombay for answers. You watch it to remember what it feels like when the world breaks and something tender still holds. A film that moves fast but feels deep, that captures a private ache inside a public crisis. Maybe that is what great cinema does. It reminds us that even when the world is burning, we are still just trying to find our way back to love.
March 17, 2025

Mouna Ragam: Why Mani Ratnam’s Classic Still Hits Hard

_{Written as part of the Pesum Padam – Mani Ratnam Retrospective Series, this piece revisits Mouna Ragam. Click to watch the Mouna Ragam retrospective.}

A girl, a boy, an arranged marriage, the ghost of a lost love, the divorce papers, the heart that will not quit. That is Mouna Ragam in six beats, Mani Ratnam’s 1986 film that grabs you and does not let go.

There is a moment in the movie, a top-angle shot where Divya, played by a luminous Revathi, sits on a terrace next to the thulasi maadam, on her wedding evening, and asks her mother a question that stops you cold. “How am I supposed to share a room with a stranger? Would you have let this happen two days ago?” It is not loud or filmy. It is soft, almost like she is talking to herself. But it lands like a thunderbolt. At his sharpest, Mani transforms a single line into a mirror for every Tamil girl who has ever felt the weight of an arranged marriage. Nearly forty years later, Mouna Ragam still feels like a punch to the gut, a movie that is as much about love as it is about fighting for your own space.

The film starts in Divya’s room, plastered with childhood photos, real ones of Revathi, not some art department trick. It is a small touch, but it pulls you in, makes you feel like you are flipping through her family album. Then comes the morning chaos. Divya begging for bed coffee, her mother scolding her to shower first because “Appa will get mad.” It is so 1980s Tamil Nadu, so real, you can almost smell the filter kaapi and whatever is cooking on their stove. Mani does not waste time with big hero entries or over-the-top drama. He gives us a home, a family, a girl who is mischievous but rooted.

And that is the thing about Mouna Ragam. It is different because it dares to ask questions. Divya is not just saying no to Chandrakumar(Mohan), the decent-and-mellow guy her parents pick. She is saying no to the whole idea that a girl’s life gets decided in one evening. When she tells Chandrakumar, “Please reject me, I will not be a good wife”, and he just smiles and says he likes her, you see her panic. Her family is thrilled, her father slaps her when she fights back, her mother guilt-trips her with a heart-attack sob story. It is all so familiar, so suffocating. Mani does not judge. He shows it like it is, and that is what makes it hit home.

But here is where he flips the script. Mani refuses to turn this into a sob story. It is a love story, just not the kind we are used to. Chandrakumar is not your typical hero. He sleeps on a mattress on the floor, reads Tell Me Why books, listens to Vivaldi on vinyl and respects Divya’s no when she pushes him away on their first night. “It feels like a caterpillar crawling on me”, she snaps when he touches her hand, and he backs off, no ego bruised.

Then comes the flashback, Divya’s past with Manohar(Karthik), the rebel who steals her heart. He is all fire and charm, beating up a politician’s son, winking at her after she bails him out, parking his bike in front of a Pallavan bus just to mess with her. It is the kind of energy Mani later gave Surya in Aayitha Ezhuthu, but when Manohar gets shot running to marry her, it is not just tragedy. It is the reason Divya is so broken. Mani does not milk it with slow-mo tears. He lets the pain sit there, real and raw.

Back in Delhi, the film turns into this beautiful push and pull. Their Delhi house, with its wooden vibe and funky rolling staircase, feels like a Mani trademark, cozy yet cool, a space where two strangers slowly figure each other out. Chandrakumar takes Divya to see the Taj Mahal, and instead of some big dance number, we get Panivizhum Iravu, Ilaiyaraaja’s magic weaving through shots of college kids(!!) dancing while Divya and Chandrakumar sit by a campfire, the Taj peeking through trees. It is not in-your-face romantic. It is gentle, like they are both scared to admit what is growing. P.C.Sreeram’s camera makes it look like a painting, and you can’t help but think Mani read that Aadhavan’s shortstory, Taj Mahalil Oru Pournami Iravu, because the mood’s so similar..

P.C is the guy behind the lens. He paints it alive. Delhi streets, the Taj Mahal’s outline, they are like a quiet friend in the story, all warm glows and soft edges that carry Divya’s tug-of-war inside. He grabs the small stuff, a tiny Tamil Nadu bedroom, that Delhi house, and makes it feel full of life, light hitting just right. Every shot is holding something back, waiting. Mani leans on him for a reason. PC does not flex, he shows you what is there, a world where love takes its own sweet time.

In addition to delivering a smash hit album, Ilaiyaraaja is the one giving Divya and Manohar their own beating heart. For Divya, it is this tender restless theme, Manohar’s music is all heat. His music peaks in that crazy symphonic rush when he tries to outrun the police, their bullets flying as he races to reach her, horns and strings smashing like his life is slipping away. And it is. Raaja gets them, wild for Manohar’s rush, gentle for Divya’s hurt, every note theirs alone.

When Chandrakumar is left bloodied by union goons, Divya rushes him to the hospital. And when the hospital receptionist asks her who she is, the answer escapes her before she can stop it, “I am his wife.” It is not a plot twist, it is the moment she finally sees him. By the time she’s tearing up divorce papers at the railway station, yelling, “I love you,” and he’s chasing the train, pulling the chain to carry her off, you’re cheering because it’s real. Mani takes these two people, stuck together by fate, and makes you believe they choose each other.

In Mani’s telling of this love story, everything collides with a raw, unfiltered energy. PC’s backlit angles, soft yet sharp, the cast, Revathi, Mohan, Karthik, living every second, those costumes, flowing saris and simple shirts that look natural but are not, the production design making every room a home, Raaja’s music tearing through your chest, the themes of love and fight weaving it tight. Mani makes it feel so easy, so human, like you could touch it, but you cannot. Meticulously crafted yet just beyond grasp, this is the essence of big-screen magic. It’s not all that perfect, but pulsating with life, it unsettles, and that is its power.

Mani had made four films before, sure, but this quiet movie, with its understated title hiding its seismic impact, put him on the map as an artist you could not ignore. Drawing from Mahendran’s Nenjathai Killathe, it felt like a new arrival, blending sharp storytelling with a visual style that sets the stage for everything he would do next, from Roja to Iruvar to OK Kanmani. He showed Tamil cinema a new way. Dialogues that sound like real people talking, not heroes shouting. A heroine who is not a doormat or a goddess, just a girl figuring things out. A hero who is strong because he waits.

Mouna Ragam is not flashy, it is deep. It is not about love at first sight but about love that resists, questions, and ultimately chooses. When Divya, sitting in the front seat of their Premier Padmini, turns to Chandrakumar and asks for a divorce in a calm, firm, and an unsentimental tone, the film delivers its most radical moment. It is not a plea, not an outburst, just an unshaken declaration of what she wants. In that instant, Tamil cinema’s idea of marriage shudders. This is Mani Ratnam making his mark, not with noise, but with certainty. He changed the game. And decades later, we are still playing by his rules.
March 1, 2025

மதியம். மழைத்தூறல். பிரயாணம்.

மீண்டும் முனகல் ஒலி கேட்டுத் திரும்பிப் பார்த்தேன். எதோ புதுப் பட பாடலில் வரும் கீச் கீச் சத்தமாகத்தான் இருக்க வேண்டும். காரின் பின்பக்க ஸ்பீக்கரிலிருந்து வந்ததால் கொஞ்சம் தடுமாறித்தான் போனேன். மழைத் தூறலாயிருந்தது. ஏற்கனவே ஹைவே இல்லாத வழியாக ஜீபிஎஸ்ஸில் தேர்ந்தெடுத்திருந்ததால், வீட்டிலிருந்து ட்யூவால் சென்று, நாவல்டி வழியாக கார்னேஷனை கடந்து ஸ்னோக்குவாமி நோக்கி பிரயாணம். கிட்டத்தட்ட சென்னையிலிருந்து திருப்பதி செல்ல கும்மிடிப்பூண்டி கடந்து, காலஹஸ்தி போய் திருப்பிக்கொண்டு திருப்பதி வருவது போலத்தான். வழியெல்லாம் பாசி படர்ந்த மரங்கள், வளைந்து செல்லும் உள்ளூர்த் தெருக்கள், பனி மறைத்துக் கொண்டிருக்கும் மலைகள். பாட்டை மாற்றி ராஜாவுக்கு கொண்டு வந்தேன் – “மலர்கள் தோறும் நடந்து போகும் சிறிய ஜீவனே, உந்தன் மனதைக் கொஞ்சம் இரவல் கேட்கும் எனது ஜீவனே…”

நண்பர் ஷங்கர் பிரதாப் (சமீபத்தில் முதல் கதை எழுதியிருக்கிறார், வாழ்த்துக்கள்!) இலக்கிய மதியமொன்றை ஏற்பாடு செய்திருந்தார். அருகாமையில் இடம் கிடைக்காததால் ஸ்னோக்குவாமி நூலகத்தில் நடத்துவதாய் ஏற்பாடு.

இலக்கிய கூட்டமென்றாலே எனக்கு வயிறு இளகிக் கொள்ளும் என்பதால் அவைகளில் கலந்து கொள்வதில்லை. ஆனால் ஷங்கருடன் பேசியபோது, “இலக்கிய கூட்டமென்றால் இறுக்கமாய் இருக்க வேண்டும் என்றெல்லாம் இல்லை; ஆனாலும் கொஞ்சம் தீவிரமாக இருந்தால் மட்டும் போதும்” என்றதால், போகலாம் என்று நினைத்திருந்தேன்.

சென்னையில் இருந்த போது பல்வேறு இலக்கிய கூட்டங்களுக்கு சென்று நொந்து போயிருந்ததை சொன்னேன். “கொஞ்சம் மாறுதலாய் இருக்கும், வந்து பாருங்கள். இம்மாத தலைப்பு அசோகமித்திரன். அந்த தலைப்பில் ஏதாவது பேச முடியுமா?” என்றார்.

“அசோகமித்திரனின் இயற்பெயர் தியாகராஜன். இவர் செக்கந்தராபாத்தில் பிறந்தார். இவர் இதுவரை 9 நாவல்களும்…” இப்படி எல்லாம் “My name is Kaveri, like the river Kaveri…” போல கூட்டத்திற்கு வருகிறவர்களை எட்டாம் வகுப்பு மாணவர்கள் போல நடத்த எனக்கு இஷ்டமில்லை. முதலில் அசோகமித்திரன் எழுதிய ஒரே ஒரு வாக்கியத்தையோ ஒரு பத்தியையோ கொண்டு நிறுவ முடியுமா என்று நினைத்தேன். அவரெழுதிய கரைந்த நிழல்களையும், தண்ணீரையும் தேடிப்பார்த்தேன். சரியான பத்தி அமையாததினால், ஒரு கூட்டு வாசிப்பு போல செய்யலாம் என்று நினைத்திருந்தேன். அதற்காக தேர்ந்தெடுத்திருந்தது, அரை நூற்றாண்டுக்கு முன், 1969-ல் அசோகமித்திரன் எழுதியிருந்த சிறுகதை – பிரயாணம். இது அந்த வருடம் சுதேசமித்ரனின் தீபாவளி மலரில் இடம் பெற்றது. பிறகு, அவரது முதல் சிறுகதை தொகுப்பான “வாழ்விலே ஒரு முறை” (காலச்சுவடு) தொகுக்கப்பட்டது.

அசோகமித்திரன் எழுதிய அனைத்தையும் (கிட்டத்தட்ட) படித்திருந்தாலும், பிரயாணம் சிறுகதை தான் அவரின் உச்சம் என்பது என் தனி அபிப்பிராயம். இத்தகைய உச்சக் கதையிலும் கூட முதல் டிராஃப்ட் சங்கடங்கள் இருக்கத்தான் செய்கின்றன. இருந்தும் கூட அவர் எழுத்தாளர்களின் எழுத்தாளர் தான். அவர் எழுத்தின் பிரதான அம்சமே எளிமைதான். பிரயாணம் மேலளவில் மிக எளிமையாகத் தெரிந்தாலும், அதனுள் ஒளிந்திருக்கும் பல பரிமாணங்கள் எனக்கு இன்னமும் பிடிபடவில்லை. அதனால்தான், அக்கதையை எப்பொழுதுமே என்னால் விளக்க முடிந்ததில்லை.

ஒரு சீடன், உடம்புக்கு முடியாத ஒரு யோகி குரு, இமய மலைச்சாரல், விட்டால் கடித்து தின்றுவிடக்கூடிய ஓநாய்கள், கொஞ்சம் அமானுஷ்யம், கொஞ்சம் ஆக்‌ஷன், திடுக்கிடும் திருப்பம் – டிவிட்டர் வேகத்தில் சொல்லிவிடக்கூடிய கதையாயிருந்தாலும், அது தான் கதையா?

எடுத்துப் போயிருந்த ஐபேட்டிலிருந்து அக்கதையை முழுவதுமாக சத்தமாக படித்து முடிக்க அரைமணி நேரமானது. வந்திருந்த நால்வருமே இக்கதையை முன்னமே படித்திருந்தாலும், நான் படிக்க, ஃபோன் பார்க்காமல் பொறுமையாக கேட்டுக் கொண்டிருந்தார்கள். படித்து முடித்தவுடன், “இதை நான் படிக்கும் போது சட்டென உங்களுக்குச் தோன்றிய எண்ணங்கள் என்ன?” என கேட்டேன். ஒவ்வொருவரும் வெவ்வேறு கோணங்களில் பதிலளித்தார்கள்.

ஜெயமோகன், இரண்டொரு வருடங்களுக்கு முன்பு சியாட்டல் வந்த போது இதே பிரயாணம் கதையை அலசியதாக ஷங்கரும், மதனும், ஶ்ரீனியும் சொன்னார்கள். மதன் – ஜெயமோகன் சொன்ன மூன்று விதமான பார்வைகளை பற்றிச் சொன்னார்.

அசோகமித்திரன்

இக்கதையை பற்றி என் எண்ணங்கள் என்ன என்று சொல்வதற்கு பதிலாக, 2009-ல் அசோகமித்திரனை சந்தித்த போது, அவரிடமே இக்கதை பற்றியும் இன்று நாவலில் வந்த ஒரு பகுதியை பற்றியும் விவாதித்ததை சொன்னேன்.

“அந்தக் கதை எழுதி ஒரு பதினேழு பதினெட்டு வருஷங்களுக்கு பிறகு, ஏன் அந்தக் கதையை எழுதினேன்னு நானே ஒரு கட்டுரை எழுதிப் பார்த்தேன். அப்போ தான் எனக்கே கூட எதை நினைச்சு எழுதினேன்னு புரிஞ்சது. அதை படிச்சிருக்கியா பா?” என்றார்.

இல்லை என்று தலையாட்டினேன்.

“அந்த கதை எழுதின சூட்டோடு அதை மறந்தே போயிட்டேன். அப்பப்போ யாராவது சிலாகிச்சு சொல்லும் போது அதை திருப்பி படிக்கணும்னு தோணும். கொஞ்ச வருஷம் கழிச்சு அத படிச்சப்ப தான் எனக்கே இது நானா எழதினேன்னு தோணிச்சு” என்றார்.

அன்றே தேடிப்போய் அந்த கட்டுரை வெளியான என் பயணம் (நற்றிணை பதிப்பகம்) என்ற அந்த நூலை வாங்கிப் படித்துப் பார்த்தேன். முக்கியமான பத்தி இது தான் –

இப்படி பல கேள்விகளை உள்ளடக்கிய கதையாக பிரயாணம் அமைந்தது. நான் திட்டமிட்டதின் பயனாக என்று கூற முடியாது. ஒரு பாத்திரம் – உறைபனி சூழந்த மலைகளில் தனியாக வாழும் ஒரு மனிதன் – இது தான் என் திட்டமும் துவக்கமும். பிற பின்னல்கள், நிகழ்ச்சிகள், செய்திகள் யாவும் கதையை எழுதும் போது மனம் எனும் புதை மணலில் இருந்து வெளிக்கிளம்பிக் கதையில் பொருத்திக் கொண்டவை.

இக்கதையை எழுதத் தூண்டியவை அன்று என் முன் என் கைக்கெட்டும் தூரத்திலேயே இருந்தன. ஆனால் நான் தாகூர் அனுபவத்தைப் படித்ததன் காரணமாகத்தான் பிரயாணம் எழுதினேன் என்று நினைத்துக் கொண்டிருந்தேன். இன்று தெளிவாகத் தெரிகிறது, அது ஒன்று தான் காரணம் என்று சொல்வதற்கு இல்லையென்று.
– அசோகமித்திரன், என் பயணம், 1988.

இப்படிப் போகும் அந்தக் கட்டுரை ஒரு அரிதான meta commentary. எழுத்தாளன் தான் எழுதிய கதையை கிட்டத்தட்ட இருபது ஆண்டுகள் கழித்து அதன் ரிஷிமூலம் நதிமூலத்தை தேடி தனக்குத் தெரிந்ததை தாண்டி இன்னொன்றை கண்டறியும் தருணம். உங்களுக்கு பிரயாணம் பிடித்த கதையாயிருந்தால், அந்தக் கட்டுரை கிடைக்குமானால், படித்துப் பாருங்கள்.

இந்த meta commentary கட்டுரையையும் அன்று முழுவதுமாக உரக்க வாசித்தேன். அன்று வந்தவர்களுக்கு, அசோகமித்திரன் மூலம் நான் முன்வைக்க நினைத்த கேள்வி இதுதான் – “ஒரு எழுத்தாளன் எழுத நினைத்த உட்பொருள் முக்கியமா, அல்லது அதை மற்றொரு நாள் வாசிக்கக்கூடிய வாசகனுக்கு தன் மனதில் புரிவது தான் அந்த படைப்பின் பயனா?”

வேறு மாதிரி சொல்வதானால் –

“The birth of the reader must be at the cost of the death of the author.”

இது ரொலான் பார்த் (Roland Barthes) என்ற இலக்கிய ஆய்வாளரின் கருத்து. எழுத்தாளரின் நோக்கம் இறுதி உண்மை அல்ல. வாசிப்பவரின் அனுபவமும் அதில் முக்கியமானது. எனவே, வாசிப்பவர் ‘பிறக்க’ வேண்டும் என்றால், எழுத்தாளரின் கருத்து மட்டும் முக்கியம் என்று நினைக்கும் மனநிலை ‘இறக்க’ வேண்டும். இது எழுத்தின் சுதந்திரத்தையும் வாசிப்பின் சக்தியையும் வெளிப்படுத்தும் ஒரு எண்ணமே.

டீ, பிஸ்கெட், இலக்கிய கிசுகிசு என வழக்கமான இலக்கிய கூட்ட கடமைகளுக்குப் பின் கிளம்பினேன். கூட்டத்திற்கு வந்தவர்களுக்கு சகல சௌபாக்கியங்களும் சௌகர்யங்களும், கிழக்கு திசையில் இருந்து புதுத்துணியும் லாட்டரி லாபமும் கிடைக்கட்டும்.

கார் ஓட்டிக்கொண்டு வீடு திரும்பும் போது, பனி போர்த்திய மலைகளின் இடையே இருந்து சூரிய ஒளி கண்ணைக் கூசியது. அசோகமித்திரனை நினைத்துக் கொண்டேன்.
February 27, 2025

பதினேழு ஆண்டுகள்

AI வரைந்த விண்வெளி வாத்தியார்
February 23, 2025

NEEK: A Low-Key, Contemporary Love Story

Dhanush’s NEEK (Nilavuku Enmel Ennadi Kobam) is, as the tagline suggests, a very usual love story. Which is to say, it’s about young people falling in love, misunderstanding each other, and learning something about themselves in the process. The question is not whether we’ve seen this before. We have, many times. The real question is whether the film makes it feel like something worth watching again.

And, for the most part, it does.

Dhanush’s third directorial effort doesn’t really come in with a lot of noise. It’s not a film that’s trying to announce itself with grand statements. The whole thing just kind of plays out in front of you, and you either go with it or you don’t. The film works with a lot of restraint. Not the kind where you feel like the director is overthinking every moment, but the kind that feels instinctive. It’s like Dhanush just trusts his material enough to let it breathe. Unlike Raayan, which leaned into heightened drama, NEEK moves with a sort of casual looseness. The young ensemble, who drink in every third scene because that’s just what they do, move through a world that feels immediate, contemporary, and lived-in.

But NEEK isn’t meandering or unfocused. It’s sharp. The conversations feel completely unpolished in the best way possible, with Tamil and English switching back and forth like how people actually talk. Some movies try way too hard to make this kind of thing sound ‘natural,’ and you can always tell. But here, it just works. The best moments come out of this—the way relationships unfold and how friendships hold space for grief and laughter at the same time.

This is, in many ways, a deceptively simple film. The cinematography does its job without ever trying to be flashy. The music by G.V. Prakash is vibrant without overpowering the film. And then, for a brief moment, NEEK steps away from its whole realism thing and does something spectacular. The Pulla song sequence is honestly great. I loved it. And I liked that the movie, at least here, decided to embrace the big screen for what it is. G.V. Prakash not only composes one of the film’s best tracks but also appears on screen, and for those few minutes, the film completely gives in. The lighting, the staging, the visual rhythm – it’s all just electric. And yeah, maybe it doesn’t fully belong in the movie’s otherwise stripped-down world, but who cares? It works. It’s the one sequence that really leans into the magic of the big screen, and I was happy it was there.

And then, there’s the breakup scene.

This is where I felt like the movie kind of lost me for a bit. It arrives with the force of an old cliché: a misunderstanding that escalates far beyond what seems reasonable in an era where people have about ten different ways to text each other. This is the kind of plot twist that worked in the 80s or 90s, but now? Not so much. Raayan had a similar thing, a narrative shortcut from the 80s, and I remember feeling the same way about it. Dhanush, for all his restraint, still seems drawn to the kind of emotional twists that belong to an older era of Tamil cinema. In a film that otherwise sticks so hard to realism, this moment sticks out. Not because it’s badly done. The actors do their part, some better than others. But it’s a contrivance the movie didn’t need.

Still, NEEK is engaging. And there are moments where you just can’t help but appreciate what Dhanush is doing here. Take the scene at the beach, where a gang of rowdies tries to rob the group and harass the women. Believe me, I wanted the film to use this moment. I wanted the hero to rise up, to tap into something primal, to own this scene. I wanted a Run-style transformation, or even better, a Baasha moment—one punch sending a guy flying, the whole audience losing their minds. Any self-respecting Tamil movie fan would have expected it. But nope. Dhanush doesn’t give you that. Instead of a grand, slow-motion sequence, we get one quick punch, and then the hero just runs. I won’t lie—I felt a little cheated in that moment. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that’s the whole point. This is a movie that’s refusing to bend to convention. And honestly? That’s kind of cool.

Some performances stand out more than others. Priya Varrier and Ramya Ranganathan are great. Their characters feel textured and real in a way that makes them easy to connect with. Some of the others? Not so much. There are moments where the acting slips, and you suddenly become aware that you’re watching actors act. That’s not always a deal-breaker, but in a film like this, where so much depends on immersion, it’s noticeable. The weeping scene, in particular, completely took me out of the movie. Instead of feeling the heartbreak, I found myself thinking, yeah, that’s an actor trying really hard to cry.

For all its restraint, NEEK still fits into a very familiar formula. But Dhanush’s approach makes a difference. The film isn’t trying to be a grand, sweeping romance. It’s not trying to redefine the genre. It just wants to be a story about a group of people, in a particular moment, feeling things that, to them, seem huge.

In a genre that so often amplifies emotion, NEEK instead asks: What if we just sit with it?