A little bit of Tamil in the north

A little bit of Tamil in the north
Renuka Khandekar

The film industry is rightly outraged that the bureaucracy has taken the lazy option of recommending the closure of bodies like the Films Division, Films Society, NFDC, the National Film Archives, among others, instead of making them work. It's time other ministries, besides Finance and I&B, took note and pitched in. HRD and Home, for instance. Our so-called commercial movies have done more to keep us connected as a nation than any wretched politician and certainly more than most bureaucrats.

Consider the heartwarming rite of passage in our national life that has been taking place in Delhi over the last few days in the unlikely environs of a movie multiplex in South Delhi. Northies and Southies are queuing up to watch a Tamil movie with English subtitles. It's Rajiv Menon's Kandukondain Kandukondain (I Discovered It!), starring Malayali ace Mammooty with Aishwarya Rai, Tabu and Ajith. The lyrics are by Menon's old collaborator, Vairamuthu (meaning `heera-moti' in Tamil), creator of such beautiful whimsy (Strawberry Aankhen, Awara Bhawren, which were wittily polished for Hindi by Javed Akhtar from translations of the Tamil originals).

The story? Satisfyingly Indian in its complications. Tabu and Ash are the daughters of a widowed mother whose father, a big local landlord in rural Tamil Nadu, is a speechless invalid now. The hiccups in their fortunes, their move to Chennai, their knotted love lives and the happy endings, is the fabric of the film, richly woven with fabulous visuals, ravishingly lovely women, fine acting by all concerned and terrific music. Shot through it all, like a rich golden thread, is a veritable casting coup by Messrs Menon and Muthu: nationalist poet Subrahmanya Bharati.

Bharati's poems add so much lustre to the film that it's not surprising that e-mails are flying around town seeking information on where translations of his poetry can be acquired. Bharati, who lived and died in the early 20th century, would have been heart-glad that Punjabis and UP-walas are responding so warmly to his words, even in English. Delhiites may know of him only as the statue that adorns the sarkari colony of Bharati Nagar. But he's loved to bits in Tamil Nadu for dreaming brave, new dreams for an enslaved people, right under the noses of the Brits in the Madras Presidency.

His Kili Paatu (Parrot Songs) are taught to children almost before they are weaned and he, more than even Gandhiji, was the reason the South was won over so easily to join hands with the rest of India in fighting for freedom. Back at the turn of the old century, Bharati dared to sing songs like Sindhu nadiyin misai, iraviniley, Cherana naadinilam pengal udane, sundara Telenginil paatisaithu, thonigal otti vilayadi varuvom (we'll sport on the Indus, on velvet evenings, with lovely women from the Malabar, singing sweetly in Telugu).

The song goes on to compliment all regions of India, combining the good qualities of each in delightful new experiences that only the poet was able to dream of, while the rest sang God Save The King. But beyond his patriotic songs, people love Bharati because he revelled so unabashedly in the beauty of the Indian land and because he sang of love with so much understanding of the human heart. He makes us see our world with fresh, appreciative eyes.

Concepts like `shared sensibility' are finding new meaning this month at the multiplex, with north Indian audience reactions that range from ``Great feel-good movie, yaar!'' to ``Mammooty's really good!'' to ``I'm in lust with Ajith'' and ``Can't wait to buy the cassette''. And, increasingly: ``Do you know about a poet called Bharati? I loved his poems in the subtitles, but the bookshops here say `Bharati who?'''