Wednesday, November 9, 2011

Taare Zameen Par.

It is a cruel sort of poetic justice, that when the film with the above mentioned name was getting rave reviews and accolades from the press were heaped on the child star Darsheel Safary, who won an award, another forlorn film star Ravi Menon’s passing on 24/04/2008 received little mention.

In these times when even 30 seconds of fame is a long time, it is not a surprise that Ravi’s 3 decades of work in Malayalam cinema was eclipsed even as he bit the dust in a tiny hamlet of Kerala. Just like Tare Zameen Par. Ravi Menon also had the distinction of his debut film in Malayalam “Nirmalayam” bagging the state award in the 1970’s.

Ravi and I were colleges mates in Sultan’s Battery, Wynad, three decades ago. Here In that old rustic mountain town, with small tailor shops, small shops with slatted doors a restaurant called “Delicious” and rays of the setting sun, chased by the light of a petromax lantern, we shared our dreams and forged a deep friendship.

We spent two glorious years basking in the student life, of the larger crushes, alcohol laced cocktails, brawls and misadventures. It was here that the provincial pieces of the larger jigsaw picture began to fall into place. On a rocky mountain slope by a campfire I saw the glint in his eyes and the restlessness which stoked the flames of desire to act on a bigger stage.

MGR the Tamil superstar of the 60’s was his role model and inspiration that rescued him from the humdrum harsh realities of studies and a formal education.

His dream of being some kind of swash buckling hero, led him to the gates of the Poona Film & Television institute, where he graduated with the likes of Anil Dhawan, Romesh Sharma, Rehana Sultana, Asrani, Danny Denzgopa, Jaya Bhaduri & a host of other wannabe aspirants. Expect for Danny and Jaya Bhaduri who managed to get a foot hold and rise to the top of the marquee rating in Bollywood, the rest sank and disappeared in the cauldron of oblivion and obscurity

Even though Ravi managed to land a minor role in Jungle me Mangal a Hindi film, destiny took him on a torturous and twisted road into main stream Malayam cinema, which he then considered as the beginning of a grand journey. Here for 33 years he matched histrionics with a galaxy of actors / stars in his quest for the holy grail of stardom, in what was a more fluid work culture than Bombay but he never realized the saying, that no man is an island.

Despite a stunning repertoire of many roles and a mosaic of different films, his road to fame was miles away and slowly began to crumble, notwithstanding the strong foundation and large body of work, comprising of 100 odd films and 33 serials. Fame and fortune remained disturbingly elusive and even survival in this celluloid jungle was a struggle. As his dreams began to degrade, he found refuge in C2HO5 (Alcohol) and drowned himself in the spirit that dulled his senses, and made life easier to bear, in his attempt to shake off the shackles of Tollywood, conventions of reality.

In 1989 I landed in Chennai and with great difficulty managed to trace him to a sleazy bar, where by imbibing copious amounts of liquor he was trying to escape the prison of loneliness of an out of work actor. He lamented his woes to me, holding forth a glass full of angst in a symbolic toast to our friendship. Yet he hung on to the last vestigial remnants of his boyhood dream, and kept on hoping for that 1 movie (Ore Padam) that would catapult him to fame and stardom. Hungry and loveless, he fought a determined battle hang on to this illusion, as I bid farewell. The sands of time were running out on him and had already buried many more accomplished colleagues like Soman, Jayant etc.

The sudden demise of his mother, who was constantly by his side, shattered the last remnants of his dream from further meaning and in an emotional explosion of catharsis, restlessness together with homesickness, drove him lack to idyllic Karimpuzha and the comfort of the Nallukettu tharravad, with its gaunt trees and the river Bharathapuzha flowing so quietly by the side that no one even notices its unobtrusive course, life is a funny tapestry.

This was where I met him for the last time 3 years ago, by then he had come to terms with himself and knew that is this line to turn a dream into reality you need a godfather, so he stoically accepted the situation as neither a triumph or failure, there aren’t many happy things or joys in life and it is wonderful to meet old friends and sail through the collage of past recollections. By now Ravi was a spent force; the gleams in his eyes were replaced by a blood shot look. He had changed tack into the new age TV serials to resurrect his life through more memorable recalls, amongst a wider spectrum of urban rural viewers a community in transition for a paltry sum of money. He was thrilled to see me and we spent a long time wallowing in borrowed nostalgia and went down “better” memory lanes, to try and reconstruct the halcyon days and the haunting visions of our college adventures, which were stark and vivid in our memories. He spent the night with me in the temple town of Guruvayur, where we both attended a colleague’s wedding. As the priests chanted their sloka’s to solemnize the ceremony, I could not help thinking, that if fate had decreed otherwise, Ravi too would have married a buxom lass from Kerala, who would have long since him a son / daughter to carry on the legacy of a life less ordinary. I shared a deep bond of kinship with him and this reality was the only perception that mattered at that point of time.

As his image grew smaller in the “rear view mirror” like a falling star, it burst into a colorful kaleidoscope of memories and my mind was haunted by visions, like a mist descending, enclosing the blue mountains of Wynad and in a haze my heart started reverberating with the rushing images of a flowing stream where we used to spend time, bathing, playing frolicking & laughing many years ago. I felt anger swell in my veins at the millions of viewers and large cross section of struggling artistes who trampled on his dreams and did not pay homage to even his bouquet of ashes that lay scattered at Ivor Madom. As the lights camera fade and action stilled by death is suddenness, the anguish comes gushing out, scripted like a tortured “Saga & Visual” that no cinematographer can conquer on celluloid.

Fare well my friend, we will meet again in the “neither land” where time and space transcend to bind our souls and review our friendship.

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