On Rajnikant’s trail!

A veteran filmscribe reminesces on his several encounters with Rajnikant over the years ...

It was during the early 70s. Kamal Haasan was already an established marquee name, whose class histrionics had become a crowd-puller in theatres all over the South.

It was K Balachander that inimitable spotter of talent, who took note of a new lad during a visit to the local Film Institute. A most unlikely candidate when it came to stardom, too, one would have concluded. Dark in complexion, with unruly hair which kept falling on his forehead, and tiny beady eyes which almost disappeared when he smiled. Yet his movements had a feline grace, his laugh had a spontanety which was genuine, and he walked with a swagger which showed extreme self-confidence.

Balachander, who had nurtured many a great name, also did not miss the dogged perseverance in that face, a kind of determination which would not accept failure without a game fight. And he was justified in this line of thought, too. Even when he pitted this most unlikely youngster against Kamal (who already had a star-image), Rajnikant playing the villain in Moonru Mudichi, simply walked away with the rave reviews.

The first superstar tag in the South was already hovering over Rajnikant’s dishevelled mane. His trade-mark gimmicks, like flicking a cigarette into his mouth, donning his sunglasses with a seemingly impossible twist, and flicking the telephone from hand to hand like a human robot, soon became the rage of front-benchers. His fan following grew, and the young ones amongst them (who formed the majority), never tired of showing off their skill in what they called “The Rajni Style”!

It was around this time that a Mumbai glossy (who normally never touched south Indian stars with a barge-pole!), assigned me to do in-depth interviews with both the current big names, Kamal Haasan and Rajnikant.

Kamal’s interview proved a cake walk. He had an organised office supervised by brother Charuhasan, and appointments with the press were meticulously kept. Rajni, on the other and, proved to be an entirely different ball-game. He was staying with his long-time friends Krishna Rao and Satyanarayana, in a makeshift room,, on a terraced building near the Music Academy. But getting hold of him for an interview, was easier said than done. His room was furnished entirely in bamboo, with huge mirrors decorating the walls. This fixation for mirrors is even displayed in the house in Poes’ Garden, which was then under construction.

Even his friends confessed ignorance about his whereabouts. “You may find him at some friend’s house, or at the bar at the Taj, or he may be just driving around by himself. Nobody can say, because he changes moods suddenly. We can tell you for sure where to find him, only when we know he is shooting. Tomorrow he is working for Balachander’s film, and you can get him at MGR, Latha’s shooting house.”

In the meanwhile, Rajni had become a household name, and no publication worth its name would fail to carry some news item about the rambunctious star. There were the occasional bar brawl, and there was the incident where he attempted to pin an annoying journalist to the wall of the Music Academy. An excellent driver, he drove onto the pavement after the guy, who just managed to escape by climbing the wall!

The quintessential young rebel, Rajni’s private life was very similar to his portrayals on screen. He was passionately fond of children, and never forgot a friend. In a packed studio set, under blinding lights, almost always surrounded by fans, I was surprised more than once, when he accomplished the impossible by spotting me and raising a hand to say “Hello!”

Some time later, he went into a period of depression, and holed up at the house of a poor old lady, who hardly realised whom she was sheltering under her roof. He never hid the fact that he liked his daily drink, and his capacity to hold it was admirable.

I had mentioned his weakness and loyalty to old friends. One group I don’t think he’ll ever forget are the Bangalore Transport employees who were once his colleagues. He invites them to his house on every birthday of his, and they arrive happy to see the success of their old friend. I landed at his house once, without realising it was his birthday. The air of easy camaraderei which prevailed among the bare-bodied group of men wearing lungies, squatted all over the floor of his living room, was unmistakable.

Another sign of this friendship was that while he kept bottles of imported liquor for his friends, he himself swigged with relish the crude Karnataka government arrack they had brought for him. “I love my country!” he said proudly, raising his glass!

After lunch, he came out to bid me goodbye, and put me in a car to reach me home. Not a single car was available, as his staff had all gone home to celebrate the boss’s birthday. “No problem!” he said, climbing on to a Vespa scooter parked there, “I’ll drop you!” Equally skilled in both car and two-wheeler on the road, he zipped through the busy city thoroughfares. People recognised him only when he came close, and even though their mouths dropped open in astonishment, he had shot past them. As a crowd of urchins began yelling his name, and thronging behind us, he told me, “I’ll slow down, you jump off!”

As planned, I went to K Balachander’s sets of Tillu Mullu to confirm the interview appointment. He had shaved off his moustache (he was doing Amol Palekar’s role in the remake of Gol Maal). In the scene he was showing a youngster how to flip a cigarette precisely between his lips. When Balachander turned away to discuss something with his cameraman, Rajni quickly slipped behind a pillar. I found him there, furiously puffing away at the smoke, as a schoolboy would, when apprehending discovery by his master. “I don’t even carry cigarettes on KB-saar’s sets!” he told me, reverentially.

It is this simple humility, and deep respect for elders, that has made Rajni the box-office colossus he is today.

And it is not as though it is a one-way thing, he expects the same from others. At his house-warming ceremony, there was quite a large crowd of invitees. He had politely informed the few press people, that his aged father was resting in the front prayer room, and that they should refrain from disturbing him as far as possible. “He is an old man,” he told us, “and he does not like publicity.”

A few minutes later, there was a scurry and a brief tussle. I peeped down to see Rajni collaring somebody, and bodily scuffing him to the front door. The man in question was my photographer, and though he was a burly man twice Rajni’s weight, the way he almost lifted him off his feet, reminded me of those old Superman movies! He was released only after I barged in with the explanation that he was not present at the time the star had made that request about his father.

The interview the next night was almost a revelation. He landed an hour late, bursting with apologies, in spite of my protests that he was perfectly justified, now that he was superstar and a widely-loved public figure. He casually wrapped a towel around him, and disappeared for a quick shower. The time was 9.45 pm.

He emerged, with his hair wet, uncombed and bedraggled. His favourite way of grooming it is passing his fingers through it, repeatedly, mechanically. He poured himself a really large Patiala peg, and called room service for fried chicken. He seemed really amazed at my dislike for Scotch, and then went out himself into the corridor to get a waiter to get me some rum.

Then he started pacing the narrow path in the room, between cupboard and door. “You write for an English magazine?” The question was shot at me in the accusing tone of an opposition leader aiming a barb at Rajiv Gandhi on the Bofors affair. “Read this! What does it mean?” It was a Malaysian magazine, with a feature on him. The opening line was: Rajnikanth is an anathema! “What is the meaning of ‘anathema’? See, I don’t understand what you write about me?” He had a point there, I must admit. So I switched over to Hindi, with occasional Tamil in between. I also promised to translate whatever I wrote, into language he would understand.

The man’s energy and staying power is amazing. The interview went on till 4 am., and never did he sit down once. He paced up and down without a moment’s rest. He would fill his glass like clockwork, and kept one eye on the mirror, even when he had the occasional bite of chicken. Once the ice was broken, he began talking. A warm, feeling human being, who spoke from the heart. No pretensions, no smart-alecky comments, no wise-cracks, as you’d expect from an ex-bus conductor. And no opinions on colleagues or fellow artistes, either.

Except once, when I asked him why he kept looking at the mirror so often. Was it some kind of self-workship?

“No, no!” he answered, slowly. “Look at Sivaji Ganesan, look at our Kannada Dr Rajkumar. They have got personality! But to think they are paying money to see this fellow in the mirror! I just can’t believe it!”

I have done many interviews after that, covered the shooting of many of his movies. He has always remained the same uncomplicated, simple, straight-from-the-shoulder guy I have faced that night in that hotel-room. His English has improved considerably, probably from inter-action with the Mumbai filmworld, and his wife. Though he had always shunned politics, it surprised me considerably to see him throw in a shoulder to help the anti-Jayalalitha brigade. Yet, he steadfastly remains the champion of the underdog, and though he tries his best not to publicise the charitable work he spends lakhs on every year, everybody knows all about it.

May be that obscure writer had hit the nail on the head, after all! Rajnikant is truly an ANATHEMA!

V Shekhar