Muthal Mariyathai (1985)

                                        1985                                                     
                              Directed by: Bharatiraja                                
                                    Music: Ilaiyaraja                                     
       Starring: Sivaji Ganesan, Radha, Vadivukkarasi, Satyaraj

I have always been wary of watching Sivaji Ganesan on screen. My introduction to the thespian came through watching him on Oliyum Oliyum, the Tamil version of Chitrahaar. And on the occasional regional language film that DD showed on Sunday afternoons. And, frankly? Weaned on Amitabh and Dharmendra, Rajesh and Vinod, a corpulent man, jowls quivering with emotion and eyes red with anger, whose dialogue delivery was more a declamation than speech was not very enthralling. When Sivaji Ganesan thundered, yenna da? even the heavens trembled.

And of course, there was the slight Malayali snobbishness – our actors were better than their actors. I conveniently forgot that MG Ramachandran and his arch nemesis MN Nambiar were both Malayalis. And that neither believed in restraint. And if I thought about it at all, then I would have shrugged it off as all the Tamil film industry’s fault – they demanded over-the-top theatrics.

And then, some time in 1997, I got to watch a Malayalam film called Oru Yaathramozhi. I was blown away by the pathos the Nadigar Thilakam brought to his role as a man who meets his only son as an adult, develops a close relationship with him; not knowing that the son is on the lookout to kill the father who abandoned his mother and him.

It was a revelation. I began to understand just why the veteran actor commanded the respect that he did. And so when I got a chance to watch Muthal Mariyathai, a movie that had released more than a decade earlier, I grabbed it.

In a dilapidated hut on the banks of a river, an old man, Malaichami (Sivaji Ganesan) lies ailing; it is the talk of the village; he had been their headman. The villagers have all massed at his wife Ponnatha’s (Vadivukkarasi) place begging her to stiffen her upper lip and go get him. He will not step into the house of his own volition, of that they are sure. The wife’s voice rises in indignation – why are they all blaming her? She had hoped that some of the village elders would have gone to bring her husband back. The villagers move to the hut; they are indignant on the ailing man’s behalf. The wife has not only not come to visit, she hasn’t allowed her daughter to come to her father.

The patient overhears the discussion; there’s a resigned smile on his face. Suddenly, as he draws a painful breath, far away, its pang is felt by a young woman who is in jail. He is waiting, waiting, and no one has any idea why, or for whom. She is suffering too – each mile that she travels cannot be too soon, and she does not know what she will find at journey’s end.

One of the village elders comes in to the hut – the man’s wife, daughter, son-in-law and grandchild have all come to see him. Could he open his eyes and see them? He doesn’t. His wife is infuriated. Who else but she would have put up with this man for over thirty years? And now, he is languishing in love? As her voice rises and falls in condemnation, the scene segues effortlessly into a flashback.

If it is not her husband, then it is her husband’s orphaned nephew who is at the receiving end of her sharp tongue. At least her husband had a stick and four goats, she tells him; you don’t even have a piece of cloth to call your own and yet you sit there begging for food. As she desultorily serves her husband lunch with the same hand she used to wipe her nose, he quietly leaves in disgust. She is unperturbed.

But the skies are clear; the sun is high up  and there’s a pleasant breeze; Malaichami cannot be unhappy. He proceeds to the fields. As he sees his workers toiling in the fields, he bursts into song while they join in the chorus. It is clear that he is regarded with affection and respect.

A lone voice, clear and pure takes up the refrain from across the fields. Malaichami is upset when he sees someone step across the fence. They are immigrant workers who have left their village due to the famine, hoping to see if they can earn a living somewhere else.  While the father is humble and subservient, the daughter (Radha) doesn’t take kindly to Malaichami’s teasing comments.

When he asks who she is, the girl informs him that she has a name – one that has been bestowed upon her in a temple, in the presence of the deity and many thousand relatives and friends. She is Kuyil (Cuckoo); spirited, independent and very much no-nonsense.

Malaichami is amused, and sends them on their way. He is not as amused when he sees them building a hut on the riverbank the next day. The old man explains that they had not been able to find work either in the village or the fields; his daughter had had the bright idea of ferrying the villagers over the river so they could earn their living. Malaichami is not unkind; he agrees, warning them that they should ask permission first. He even inaugurates the boat service.

Days later, he and his nephew are alone at home, when he spots a sparrow pecking at grains on the window sill. Amused, he breaks into a song begging the sparrow to find a mate and build a nest in their home. As he addresses the sparrow, he is surprised to hear it answer. Or so it seems.

Kuyil, who was passing by selling fish, couldn’t help but respond. But when she hears him shout, Kuyil hides. Malaichami is intrigued. Who is there in the village who can answer him so well in song?

The arrival of his wife soon puts a stop to any thought of music or song. At the fields, the workers are happy at the increased yield. Malaichami gently points out that it’s their hard work that has cause the earth to yield so much. And despite their protestations, he asks the overseer to share a sack of paddy amongst the workers.

As Malaichami wanders around, he cannot keep from singing; once again, a disembodied voice answers him in song. Who is it? 

In a bid to find out, Malaichami continues to ask questions in verse; and gets answers in return. Yet, he cannot find the singer. Once again, the song dies on his lips with the arrival of his wife. She is aghast at the idea of a responsible mature man singing in the fields. And furious when she finds out that he has allowed the workers to share a sack of paddy.

If it were his money, then he would be bothered, perhaps. The workers are disgusted with her attitude, and quietly put back the paddy they had been given. Kuyil is witness to Malaichami’s humiliation.

Malaichami remembers how his father-in-law had fallen at his feet to save their honour. As always, Malaichami turns to song to express feelings that dare not say out aloud. Kuyil’s sympathy finds her responding to his queries, and when he asks (sings) who she is, she cannot hide anymore.

He is surprised and amused, perhaps even attracted (a bit); it is clear that she thinks of him as she would her father.

It does hurt his pride a bit, and when she challenges him to lift a heavy boulder, he asks her what the reward would be – it will prove he is young (and not only at heart), she says.

He teases her – that’s not enough. Would she marry him? Shocked, she stares at him; then, not one to give up a challenge, promises to marry him if he succeeds. He has no intention of following up on his teasing, but when she leaves him, cannot resist trying to lift up the boulder, if only to prove to himself that he is young and strong.

Needless to say, he doesn’t succeed. 

From then on, every time he passes their hut, he cannot resist trying – much to Kuyil’s amusement. It angers her father when he hears about it, but Sengodan, the village cobbler, tells her Malaichami’s backstory. It shakes her to the core, and only makes her more sympathetic to a man who has become a friend.

Their friendship develops slowly with Malaichami helping her sell her goat for three times its worth; and Kuyil cooking the fish he helped her catch and forcing him to eat a meal at her house – she is aware of the hurt and sadness that he hides behind his bonhomie, and from that deep well of pity arises a love she does not care to hide.

He’s touched by the care with which she serves him, and an affection that he hasn’t experienced for he cannot remember how long. It's the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Finally, one day, Malaichami succeeds in lifting the stone. Kuyil, who has watched him is astonished, but Malaichami is embarrassed.

There is a side plot about the romance between Malaichami’s nephew and Sengodan's daughter, Sevuli (Ranjini). When her father fixes her marriage, the two elope. As they belong to a lower caste, Sengodan is afraid that she will be dishonoured. He comes to Malaichami for help. The latter is aghast – a relationship between castes? That’s against tradition, and the family’s honour. As he begins to search for the lovers, Kuyil, who has been helping them is furious – he is more bothered about tradition? Where was this tradition when he became friends with her?

Better sense prevails and he gets the two of them married. Kuyil finds her affection deepening into love.

Meanwhile, the two young lovers are deliriously happy. Until one day, Sevuli is drowned. The Panchayat brings in a verdict of accidental death, but her father is not satisfied. He has proof she’s been murdered.

Malaichami is perturbed – who in the village would commit such a heinous crime? That senseless tragedy is compounded by another. And Malaichami is a broken man. The music is finally stilled.

His only solace is Kuyil, but even that’s not destined to last.

It brings matters to a head, however, and despite his hurt at the way their relationship is tarnished in public, he stands by her. Kuyil is curious – why did he say what he did?

When he confesses that he said it in the heat of the moment, she is devastated. Her reaction shocks him. But Kuyil is unrepentant. Her heart beats for him. And can he say he doesn’t care for her? 

How can Malaichami respond? And his wife? It’s not in her nature to stand aside. How will the village panchayat respond to the headman’s indiscretions?  What is the dark secret that Malaichami is hiding? And Kuyil? Will her self-respect allow her to keep silent in the face of his rejection?

As I mentioned earlier, Sivaji Ganesan was Malaichami; benevolent, playful, paternal – who, bound in a claustrophobic marriage, becomes friendly with the boatman’s daughter; a relationship that matures into love. His sorrow when faced with his wife’s shrewishness, his almost-constant humiliation at her hands, his affection and benevolence toward the villagers, and his wonder at being loved unconditionally by a girl young enough to be his daughter – it was amazing to see all that expressed with very little dialogue. Even when Kuyil asks him to be true and ask himself if he didn't love her, he is adamant he doesn't - because he cannot imagine himself doing so; she's young enough to be his daughter. However, once he admits it to himself (and it's a hard thing to do), he has no reservations about admitting it to her.

Vadivukkarasi as Ponnatha was no less effective – she makes you itch to slap her. She constantly rubs her husband’s face in the fact that it’s her father’s money that allows him to swagger around as the headman of the village. And makes no bones about publicly insulting him, or even calling the Panchayat and her relatives to punish him for daring to consort with a lower-caste woman. Everyone knows her for what she is, her daughter, the villagers, but she is not cowed down – she is dominating, domineering, and absolutely unlikeable, and the actress ensured that we hated her. Yet, in the end, when she is faced with the bitter truth, and she deflates into nothingness, one feels a sneaking sympathy for a woman; you get the feeling that, in that one moment, she has lost something irrevocable. And there’s a fleeting sadness because her pride was all that she had.  

Radha. What can I say about her? This was an actress who was known for her glamorous roles. Who sashayed on the screen in false eyelashes, mini skirts and enough make-up to make taking it off an hour-long endeavour, and who was happy to remain arm-candy to the various heroes who happened to be around. She was also the ruling heroine of the time.

Kuyil was a challenge; one that she handled with such ease that one wishes that she had been given so many more opportunities than she received. Her sprightliness and independence is established right in the beginning. Her courage in standing up for what she feels is right comes to the fore when she excoriates Malaichami for giving in blindly to tradition. Her sympathy for the latter, and its slow development into a lasting love, where no sacrifice is too great to ensure his happiness – the actress used her beautiful eyes and mobile face to great effect. It was a role that most heroines would give their eye teeth for. And it’s to Radha’s credit that, nearly twenty-five years later, I cannot imagine another contemporary actress doing it as well. 

This was another national award winning performance that got shafted at the National Awards – Radha lost out to Suhasini in Sindhu Bhairavi, and across the border in Kerala at least, shock rippled through cinema-lovers. The reactions to Sridevi’s shocking loss three years before this was being replicated across the state - How could they? 

Muthal Mariyathai is a realistic depiction of different relationships between man and woman on one side, and a sensitive exploration of a May-December romance on the other. With Bharatiraja masterfully helming his own script, and Ilaiyaraja’s melodious score (and background), Muthal Mariyathai merged story, music and acting into one harmonious whole. For the first time (that’s what I read somewhere; if it’s not, please let me know), the maestro used Esa paatu – the musical trope where one verse asks questions and the following verse (by another singer) provides the answers.
 

At the end, I became a diehard fan of Sivaji Ganesan and will now sit through even his most theatrical of films (in small doses). 

---------

For a decent DVD print of this film, with subtitles.

Erm, the subtitles are hilarious, often translating the dialogues literally into English, but you can get some sense of its meaning (which, by the way, were remarkably natural).

This was also the first post I began when I returned to blogging at the beginning of the year. bollyviewer had persuaded me to write about south-Indian films and I wanted to begin with this film; only I did not own this DVD and it was not available online - until now. So, bollyviewer, this, once again, is especially for you.