Eight years ago when Rajesh
Khanna passed away, my maternal aunt cried a lot. It was a known fact in the
family that she did not take her meals that day. I did not understand all that
fancied association she had for the actor. It was kind of unusual
for me. But nowhere was I insensitive towards her feelings.
I think I understand my aunt
better now. With the passing away of Irrfan, I guess I understood what it means
to feel the ache in your heart and whimper - without having met the person even
once. It is strangely personal, even though there is no literal relationship
that exists. It is all make-believe that we see on the screens, but sometimes
we fall for them in the real world too. The lines get blurred and somewhere, we
choose to get drifted. We start loving it that way.
It has been a few days since the
news, yet it is difficult to accept that this magnificent actor is no more with
us. And that we won’t ever see him play another real-life character with many nuances, conviction, and excellence.
Irrfan Khan had this remarkable
ability to make the average films bearable to the audiences, especially films, like - Karwaan and Qarib Qarib Single. His character in every film stood
out - irrespective of the film’s commercial and critical acclaim. One wonders
if any other actor with the same script, dialogue, and Director, would have
exhibited the same brilliance as Irrfan did in all his films. He immortalised several significant characters on the screens. And that can’t be said for
most actors.
I have watched a lot of his
films, but the ones that truly stayed with me over the years, are – The
Namesake, The Lunchbox, and Piku. Several scenes from these films have remained
etched in my memory. Moreover, every character that Irrfan portrayed, felt like
that of someone close I know. It is kind of magical.
* In ‘The Namesake’ – Ashoke
Ganguli is like my Kaku. You know the
quintessential Bengali kaku, who is
forever the overprotective type. He understands the need of the hour, but
still wants his child to remain rooted in his story – the origin of his name!
He is also the one who understands his wife’s unspoken wishes - who leaves
everyone behind to start a new life with her husband. The whole film is a
package of emotions on a continuum. However, these are some of the scenes I can
revisit many times to marvel over Irrfan’s acting skills -
Scene
1 –
Ashoke looks at his shrunk
clothes and tells his wife, why she had to venture out into an unfamiliar world
to get the laundry done. Ashima, who tries to do things as a dutiful wife,
feels hurt by her husband’s charge and locks herself up in another room. And
then it is Ashoke cajoling his wife to let it be and begging her to smile a
little. You have to watch this scene to understand – the emotions of slight
annoyance, persuasion, respect, and affection – all blending together
into creating Irrfan’s dialogue delivery.
Scene
2 –
Ashoke goes to Gogol’s room to
gift him the book – The Overcoat by Nikolai Gogol on his birthday. Ashoke wants
to narrate the story of the origin of his son’s name. But he doesn’t get the
opportunity to do so, as Gogol seems least interested in knowing anything about
the book. He rather wants to concentrate on the music he is listening to.
Ashoke sits in his son’s room as Gogol puts the music off. Ashoke understands that
his presence is unwanted; he pats his son and quietly leaves from there. As a
construction of a scene – it could be a simple one. But it is not. Watch it to
understand how a father runs through an emotional quandary and feels uneasiness
in approaching his son. But Ashoke chooses not to overstep Gogol’s space. A lot
is conveyed through Irrfan’s expressions in this scene – between his want to
tell the story and not being able to do anything – he decides to leave.
Scene
3 –
Ashoke walks with his son to the seashore but forgets to bring a camera. He then asks Gogol to capture the
event in his mind forever that he had visited such a beautiful shore. The
dialogue in this scene has been a personal favourite over the years – “Remember that you and I made this journey together to a place where there
was nowhere left to go.”
Back in 2007 when I first watched
this film and wrote about it on my blog - this scene had moved me to tears even
then, and it still holds the same power. It numbs me, whether I am in a happy
or vulnerable state. This scene manages to shake up the equilibrium – whatever
it is.
Over the years, several times,
I remembered Ashoke’s lesson and captured the episode in my mind and heart,
when a camera wasn’t handy. Actually, the best of the events have all been
imprinted in the mind and heart.
* In ‘The Lunchbox’ - Sajjan Fernandes is like my first love – S.
Like Sajjan, S had waited it out – several times in life, without expecting
much in return. The best part about having a platonic relationship is that you
put a lot of emphasis on emotional bonding. And sometimes, that’s all you
require when everything else fails. Between not being able to see each other for
months together and then sitting next to each other, without uttering a word –
a lifetime passes by.
There
are several scenes that I like in the film. Most scenes are just driven by
Sajjan’s terrific expressions and not dialogues. Sajjan’s childlike
anticipation of the lunchbox, touching and sniffing - just to reaffirm that it
is from Ila, plating of food items, savouring and even assessing them
critically, his long glances at the ceiling fan or that look at his neighbour’s
dining table – all laced up with the feeling of immense solitude and the desire
for companionship.
Scene
at the restaurant and bathroom
Sajjan
looks into the mirror as he gets ready to meet Ila at the restaurant. He is in
his usual office attire – tucked-in shirt and trousers. As he is about to step
out of the bathroom, he goes closer to the mirror and keeps looking at his
face. Something strikes him all of a sudden and things change. Later, as the
film progresses, he writes to Ila telling her that he is a witness to her beauty
and also to his aging.
Sajjan’s
expression in the bathroom changes from being optimistic to turning into
melancholic – all within a few minutes. He looks around in the bathroom and
gets a sense that it now smells of an old man. Somewhere in all this, he has
lost his youth. He becomes aware of it more now. Sajjan writes to Ila – “I
forgot something in the bathroom, and when I went back to get it, the bathroom
smelled exactly like it smelled after my grandfather took a bath. That’s when I
realised it wasn’t him; it was me.”
* In
‘Piku’, Rana Chaudhry is like a flirtatious neighbour, whose style of flirting
is thankfully subtle. He has a good heart and doesn’t hold back in calling
spade a spade, like - when Rana tells Bhaskor that if Piku felt of him as some
sort of a burden, she wouldn’t have arranged for this trip to Kolkata.
I had
written a blog spot on what I feel about this film - Piku. Out of all the scenes, the
conversation regarding a peaceful death stayed with me over the years -
Scene
Bhaskor tells Rana at the
breakfast table that he shouldn’t have allowed his father to be put on a
ventilator and that the entire process must have caused him more suffering than
doing any good. Rana tells him that he followed what was told by the doctors.
It’s a terrific scene where Rana just looks at Bhaskor all perplexed and
disoriented, and is unable to fathom if he was the cause of his father’s death.
Whether it was Ashoke Ganguli, Sajjan Fernandes, or Rana Chaudhry -
each of them brought me closer to the people they portrayed. The characters
remained so real that I could relate to them - laughed, cried, empathised, and
grew up with them. They conveyed a purpose, sometimes with dialogue and
sometimes with just facial expressions. That’s the power of a splendid actor.
Irrfan Khan had that kind of power.
That’s why, losing him seems
to be like a personal loss. And I share this grief with millions of Irrfan Khan fans across the globe.
आँखों की
नमी
हाँ तेरी
मेहेरबानी है
थोड़ी सी
उम्मीदो से आगे
ऎसी कहानी
है…
Irrfan sir, I took a moment to say Goodbye to you. I, however, wish I never had to.
