Not just Mrs Aamir Khan

(Published in Sakal Times on June 23)
Kiran Rao is distinctly her own self — enormous talent, intelligence, warmth, simplicity all packed into one small frame. After directing the much-acclaimed Dhobhi Ghaat, she is now presenting Anand Gandhi’s debut feature film Ship Of Theseus. In a free-flowing chat with Renu Dhole, she talks about her passion for cinema, bringing up son Azaad and co-existing with mainstream Bollywood

It’s great that you’re backing a film that would’ve found it hard to get a release in India, given the fact that the audience here is not exposed to alternative, independent voices like Anand’s. But a lot of the press around the movie is now calling it Kiran Rao’s Ship of Theseus. When you associated yourself with the film, did you ever fear that your name would overshadow the filmmaker’s?

There was that concern, yes. I was worried that might happen. But it was short-lived. Anand has a unique voice. I may be better known, so perhaps it’s easier to connect my name to the film. But once you watch the trailers, once you reach the theatre, you’ll see that this is completely his film. I can’t take away from what is entirely his credit. My association with the film wasn’t planned. I just happened to see the film and it turned out to be such a beautiful, complete film, you can tick all the boxes — novel idea, great cinematography, great writing? Check. Check. Check. It has a very strong philosophical core that the audience can unravel in their minds over time, that perhaps demands repeat viewing. It’s not for easy consumption. You’ll have to step out of your comfort zone to engage with the film. I knew this is the kind of film that needs nurturing. I initially doubted the difference that an individual could make, and my ability to do it as well. But whatever little goodwill or celeb quotient I have, I thought the film could make use of that.

Now that you’ve stepped into it, do you plan to carry forward your support for meaningful, independent cinema in any serious way?

I’ve not planned to do it in any long term way. I’ll see the outcome of this, first. Also, I have such a limited bandwidth, being a mother and a filmmaker wanting to tell stories myself. But if the need arises, if there’s something really great that needs to be supported and nobody is doing it, I’ll definitely do it.

You are giving this film a limited release, but the online ‘vote for the film in your city’ is a an interesting strategy. Do alternative films need alternative methods of distribution?

Definitely. Filmmakers also have to realise is that the scenario is changing. We need to look beyond theatrical releases and explore other avenues of exhibiting films like online distribution. For someone sitting in Jamshedpur, there should be other options to see good films than torrent downloads; and it’s patronising to assume that good cinema is received only in big cities. Also life has changed so much. People sometimes even miss watching a film that they really want to, in the theatres. And then it’s gone in a matter of weeks. Films, like books, should have a longer life and the filmmaker should be able to earn from it for a long time. I realised that more people watched Dhobhi Ghaat on flights rather than the theatres. So we can’t shy away from these alternatives. Also, getting a big release is very hard — there’s a big machinery that goes into it. And not all films can bring in the box office numbers in spite of being good films. It’s actually been a passion project for me — finding alternative exhibition spaces for different kinds of cinema. There are so many preview theatres, halls that are lying dormant. Could we make use of such spaces — clubs, theatres — where you pay a small amount and enjoy good films? We need to explore that.

You speak so passionately about cinema. Does motherhood, which is equally emotionally consuming, ever conflict with your love for films, your aspirations as a filmmaker?

It’s a tricky thing you know. Life is certainly richer, happier because of my son. Had I not loved films so much, I would’ve probably spent all my time with him, taking him along to enjoy the beautiful greenery in the monsoon. But I realise that I won’t be a happy person if I did only that. Films are what drive me. So I’m trying to see how to balance it out. But if it comes to a toss-up, I have no doubts which side will win. I’ve not gone there yet. Luckily for me, this is not a 9 to 5 job. And I have the infrastructure at home, with my husband and mother in law…I can leave him at home reassured that he will be taken good care of. But yes, writing is difficult. It’s difficult to find that space in your mind again, to immerse yourself completely into something, to leave everything behind. You wonder if you’ve begun to lose that edge — that’s a fear with all of us. So in October last year, I got back to reading old books, trying to find ways to get the writing started. But with motherhood, all these things, these spaces in your mind, turn into mush — though it’s a happy mush.

Do you ever see yourself directing a film without writing it yourself?

I’ve begun to think that is a possibility now. The writing has to be superlative enough to make me want to direct it — and that’s rare. Also, I’ve realised that I don’t make films to just make films. I make films so that I can write, I can immerse myself in music, I can think about how to shoot it. It’s a coming together of all the things that I love about the creative process.

When it comes to writing or directing, your sensibilities remain very unconventional vis a vis mainstream Bollywood. Is it difficult to retain them when you’re surrounded by company that represents everything you are not?

I remember feeling a bit out of the mould initially when I was exposed to this company. But I would observe and learn from this exposure to different people. It wasn’t that difficult. Being in strange company went on to add layers to my understanding of human nature. Also, I have to say, it did change my attitude to the mainstream. I was a hardcore film school person dismissive of the mainstream. But I have come to learn that different things drive different people. And of course, age has made me more understanding of different people in the industry. I am however critical of the fact that there is not enough rigour, not enough engagement with the craft of filmmaking that’s practised in the industry. People are in awe of 3 Idiots because it had great content and did so well commercially. But Raju spent 2 years working on the script. You have to give it that kind of time. Most people in the industry I feel are happy to make movies without giving it that kind of time and thought.

Being surrounded by mainstream Bollywood also comes with its own pressures. Was it difficult to be different, to hold your own, when all you are expected to do is augment your star husband’s identity?

I used to be amused at the kind of attention my clothes, my looks attracted initially. Fashion wags telling me how to dress, film magazines advising me what kind of films I should make — it used to amuse me. But then I understood that being the companion of a much-adored figure in the industry makes curiosity natural. It didn’t affect me deeply though. I of course realise the responsibility of being seen with Aamir — I have to maintain the dignity of public life. I can’t go and just do my own thing — I feel protective of his stature. But now I don’t mind dressing up and going out — why not? I’m enjoying it, as long as nobody is asking me to wear a gown! (laughs)

When do we see you directing next?
I’m working on a script, yes. But let’s see when it happens. Writing is a little slow now.

Words of wisdom

In an age where a large chunk of lyrics one is subjected to includes distinctly unpoetic objects like fevicol, zandu baam and the ilk, it takes a while to declutter and tune into the songs of Prasoon Joshi. His words make you breathe out...think tu dhoop hain, chham se bikhar. To be able to write songs about freedom, the irrepressible human spirit and faith that fuses the beloved and God into one, in today's world, must feel like a blessing to the poet-ad man- lyricist. “I do feel very lucky that I don't have to stoop to levels that make me uncomfortable. I'm able to do meaningful work that gives me joy,” Joshi says, adequately grateful.

The beauty of his imagery, he says, comes from a childhood spent in small towns. “I was born in the mountains. I have very fond memories of growing up there.” It is the innocence of nature he's seen so closely and the charm of an unfettered life that never fail to connect with his audience, he thinks. “However embroiled you become in your urban existence, at the end of the day, one yearns for sukoon (peace, relief). Everybody wants to come home, be with their family, children. The world has become very mechanised, but we will always want that organic connect with life. I feel blissful to be able to write about these things, and share it with others,” he says.

Joshi has now moved a step further, writing the script, screenplay and dialogues for Bhaag Milkha Bhaag, a biopic on India's champion sportsman Milkha Singh. “I took two years to write the script. And I'd decided I wouldn't do the fourth thing for this film – write songs,” he tells us. But that feather too is already in his cap. How did he manage to do it? “On one level, it was easy, because I already was into the subject. On another level, it was a challenge because I had already written so much about it, what more could I say in the songs? So I took a break. I went into a different zone and wrote the songs quite late. I wanted the songs to add another dimension to the film,” he shares.

After giving so much of himself to the songs, doesn't it hurt that the lyrics sometimes are lost on the crowd if a film doesn't do well? “It surprises me, the way this equation works. I was disappointed when my songs for London Dreams, which I consider amongst my better work, didn't do well. But then, my work in Delhi 6 was appreciated in spite of the film not doing well. I think songs do have a life of their own,” he feels, adding, “Chittagong, for example, was a forgotten movie. But I got the National Award for my work in it. So I believe good work is good work.” He's also written songs for Satyagraha, Prakash Jha's next on the anti-corruption movement. “I had written the song Mashal as a response to the Anna Hazare movement and Prakash Jha picked it up for the film,” he informs. How the poet captures the angst, the young energy pouring out on the streets, in his words, should be something to look forward to. His tradition of bunking the trend, though, continues...

A grief like no other

Sonali Deraniyagala’s Wave is a difficult book to read. I had to put down this memoir of life after the Tsunami, several times, just to catch up on my breath.

The writer and her family – husband Steve, two boys Vikram and Malli, and parents – were vacationing at a beach side hotel in Yala, Sri Lanka, when they saw the “sea come in” for them. Not yet comprehending the strange sight, they fled towards the hotel entrance where a jeep was waiting to rescue them. Her parents left behind unwarned in the urgency of running away, the four were bundled into a jeep that could only go so far before the wave caught up with it. In an instant, everything was wiped out. When Sonali regained consciousness – sand in mouth, naked from waist down, badly bruised and barely able to breathe – the dream-like landscape of devastation hardly registered in her mind. There was no chance her boys could’ve survived, she knew.

From then on, along the writer, we’re witness to a pain so raw and cruel, the repertoire of ordinary human experience seems unable to accommodate it. It is so far removed from the wailing and shrieking that we’re used to associating with suffering, it is shocking to see how quietly, insidiously it distorts and destroys, inch by inch, any sense of normality in the grieving person’s life. For a fellow survivor, a small boy who probably had lost his parents in the Tsunami, the writer has no sympathy. “I didn’t try to comfort him. Stop blubbing, I thought, shut up. You only survived because you are fat…Vik and Malli didn’t have a chance. Just shut up.”

A beautifully written, horrifying portrait of extraordinary personal suffering this book is, but step back a little and it is also a meditation on the nature of grief. Before it cuts you up to be more sympathetic to the crushing sorrows in the world, it makes you selfish, puzzled, angry, mad, distraught, suicidal. The writer goes through the whole spectrum of this bitter experience – not letting herself sleep dreading that she’ll forget her loss and will have to wake up to relearn the reality, locking herself up in a dark bedroom to avoid a world without her family, finding comfort in the suspended state of reality that alcohol and sleeping pills bring, attempting to end her life for only that seemed logical in the face of the bizarre disaster, raging against the new occupants of her parents’ house in Sri Lanka for taking away the memory of what was left of her earlier life…The darkness is relentless.

There’s no let up as she keeps revisiting Yala, to reaffirm what happened to her. Once there, she finds a sheet of Steve’s research paper. “It had survived the wave? And the monsoon in the months after? And this relentless wind?” It’s the first time Sonali allowed herself to sob. Thereafter, she went about recollecting pieces of her past life. And the narrative begins to breathe again.

It is only after two years that Sonali walked into their London home. She leads us in to the warm glow at the centre of her household. It’s one of the best passages illuminating a rich family life full of friends, laughter and sharing. You come to love the boys, getting to know how different from each other and full of promise they were. You keep step with Steve’s enthusiasm for work and life; you join in as they laugh over a family joke. And then, pulled back into a life full of their absence, you mourn it bitterly with Sonali.

It’s a dual life for her – one she lives with them in her mind, the other she lives without them. She does move on, picking up a job in the US, going back to Sri Lanka often, stopping over at London to meet their friends and imagining how Vik and Malli would’ve grown like their children. The lump in your throat never quite goes away.

The book ends with Sonali finding it in her to live with their memory, the picture of her family frozen in sunshine in her mind. Never again can I say Tsunami without thinking of Sonali and what she lost. Her sparse, unsentimental prose has had the profoundest effect on me.