TROIS

For miners of conflict and subtext, monogamy and its bureaucratic consequence, marriage, are a mother lode. This is why writers and filmmakers over the years have returned to this cave time and again to harvest the mineral that drives drama – conflict. Often, two well-written characters are sufficient to generate the friction necessary for onscreen fireworks. But when a romance or relationship progresses without any hiccups, dramatics are precipitated by the introduction of a third character. Marriage is ill equipped to handle a third wheel: an already precarious balance will be tilted, sometimes beyond recovery. Pulling the strings on this teetering three-wheeler is how auteurs have the audience on tenterhooks. A brief stroll down the by lanes of Tamil cinema will reveal that all of its iconoclast filmmakers have mined this same source.

Sridhar, the first name that comes to mind when we speak of star directors, made a musical masterpiece on the travails of an old lover unintentionally returning to haunt a married woman. What made Chitralaya’s Nenjil Or Alayam absorbing was the circumstance of the re-introduction. Seetha meets her old beau, Murali, at his hospital where she has arrived to find a cure for her husband Venu’s cancer. Set entirely within the confines of Dr.Murali’s hospital , the film touches upon the general tragedies of life and disease – a callous husband who wishes to leave his ailing wife, a child far too young to be diagnosed with anything other than a toothache being committed to a hospital bed. However, the central focus of the film is the ethical dilemma faced by Murali and the moral one face by Seetha. There is a stroke of Sridhar mischievousness even in the naming of his characters as he surreptitiously reopens the wounds of the Ramayana by placing a question of faith in front of a Seetha. However neither of his male protagonists are the embodiment of evil. They are more or less the same person as is reflected in their names: Venu and Murali are both just names for the flute in the hands of Krishna. There is no clear choice between options and while the audience is entirely aware of the right moral decision even our minds are clouded by our affections for both Dr.Murali and Venu.

The central tension in the film is a result of Murali and Seetha trying to hide their erstwhile romance from Venu and giving him the succor to survive. However, astute husband that he is, Venu senses the tension between his wife and his doctor. Over the course of 2 hours Sridhar explores the personal dilemmas of these three characters, aided by M.S.Viswanathan, T.K.Ramamurthy and Kannadasan’s brilliance. While the resolution eventually appears rather tragically and simplistically Nenjil Or Alayam is an entertaining melodrama that ever so slightly tilted the moral prism through which we view marriage.

Over his career K.Balachander has repeatedly explored marriages from, Iru Kodugal to Sindhu Bhairavi, each time broaching the topic in a confrontational manner. There is a greater grey area in the premise of Iru Kodugal because the male protagonist, played by Gemini Ganesan, was married to both the women in his life. In Sindhu Bhairavi, however, Sulakshana clearly had the legal upper hand. But such laws have always been purely nominal for artists, especially famous ones. If Sowcar Janaki’s lack of education and societal status was the source of discontent in Iru Kodugal it was Sulakshana’s tone deafness that led to her nearly losing her husband in Sindhu Bhairavi. Many of us turn our backs on fights not out of fear of the opponent, but out fear of embarrassment. Not Balachander’s women. No pining away in silence against the inequities of society or the men they were involved with. They raised cudgels and storms and were unembarrassed to do so. For an audience conditioned to accept docile it was refreshing to see the unabashed fight in his women. In many ways his angst ridden, freedom-seeking characters were what made the outgoing, bubbly female protagonists of the eighties possible. And the Mahendran was one of the first to write such a character.

Nenjaththai Killathe’s Viji is, in some ways, a progenitor of the mischievous, youthful, urban female protagonist we would begin to see consistently through the eighties. With a vision of a jean clad girl dancing to a vinyl of the Beegees our films had begun to accurately represent our women. Unlike the typical heroine who had until then shied away at the mere mention of a man, Viji could be seen eating in restaurants with and playing pranks on the men in her life. The film also marked the arrival of another construct that was becoming more and more of a reality, an unhappy home. With only the dysfunctional relationship between her brother and his wife to draw from, it is no surprise that Viji has no frame of reference to build a healthy relationship on. She decides, more on impulse than on anything else, to wed her friend Ram, against the better judgment of her brother. When her sister-in-law’s meddling results in that relationship falling through she consents to marry Pratap, a photographer and family friend, under duress. And without further ado she proceeds to transfer the frustrations of her failed relationship with Ram into her marriage with Pratap. Importantly the hiding and walking on eggshells that characterized the proceedings in Nenjil Or Alayam is absent in Nenjathai Killathe. Pratap is aware of Viji’s dalliance with Ram and is patient with her because of this. But eventually unhealthy relationship at home affects his professional output as well. With his job ad life on the ropes Pratap decides to leave the city and Viji is left with the choice of staying in the marriage or railing against her lost cause of a romance.

The most famous of the ‘Viji’ prototypes that would follow was Mani Ratnam’s Divya. Mouna Raagam will a live on in the memories of the Tamil cinefan for its iconic background score, the Karthik cameo and his fond invitation of a certain Mr.Chandramouli. At its core the film is the journey of a young woman from the denial of a loss to the acceptance of a new relationship. Despite being married to Chandrakumar who, in her own father’s words, is a gem of a man, the ghost of Divya’s boyfriend, Manohar, looms large over her. Divya bargains for a divorce with her husband in a futile effort to remain faithful to a memory, a pleading that eventually turns into anger when Chandrakumar makes an attempt to buy her affections. After a depressing period where communication between her and Chandrakumar breaks down she accepts the truism that there is no way to move but forward. Her Kubler-Ross journey is complete and the ghost of her relationship with Manohar is exorcised.

In all of the landmark films explored above marriages were tested, sometimes to the breaking point, but spouses always ended up in each others arms. The sanctity of the institution of marriage and the concept of a singular spouse was conserved. This, however, has not always been the case. Two of Tamil cinema’s most famed directors have been contrarians. In Mudhal Mariyadhai, Bharatiraja tells the story of Malaichamy who is trapped in a loveless marriage to Ponnatha. Malaichamy commands immense respect from the people of his village but is unable to elicit any from his wife who still holds a torch for her former flame. When Kuyilu, a new migrant to the village, rekindles his youth he is more than happy to indulge her whimsy. What begins as a tussle turns into an inexplicable affection between the much married man and Kuyilu: an affection that will eventually take precedence over his marriage. Bharathiraja uses the relationships in the film as a commentary on caste and its subliminal presence in our interactions. By painting Ponnaatha as a woman with few redeeming qualities he manages to successfully have his audience sympathize with the extra-marital relationship. Balu Mahendra’s Rettai Vaal Kuruvi, however, has no larger concerns than those of his protagonist Gopi. Despite a loving wife and a largely untroubled life, Gopi falls in love with, marries and begins a dual life with another woman. While he is aware of the morally dubious nature of his behavior he inhabits Gopi is largely unapologetic. The tone of the film is not critical of its protagonist, taking a largely humorous attitude towards proceedings. Eventually unable to handle simultaneous pregnancies Gopi slips up and the two women in his life discover each other. But the grave consequences one anticipates never occur with the two spouses agreeing to live amicably. To share and share alike when it comes to a partner is not a common conclusion. One wonders if a Rettai Vaal Kuruvi would ever be possible if made with a female protagonist romancing two men. Having explored nearly every facet of the man-woman dynamic, a non-judgmental film with this perspective may be the last remaining frontier for Tamil cinema. 


An edited version appears here.