READERS of the Straits Times this morning may have spotted an article on Chiranjeevi, the film star from Andhra Pradesh state who launched his political party on Tuesday night, the latest Indian film hero attempting to parlay his screen popularity to political success.
He follows a long line of South Indian screen figures who have gone that way, none more successful than a man who in his time was known to millions of fans as simply 'MGR'.
MG Ramachandra Menon was born in a line-house on a tea plantation in the hill district of Kandy in Sri Lanka. In Tamil Nadu, where pride of language ran high, he wasn’t a Tamil. It did not matter.
His fans idolised him, aped his speech and mannerisms, right down to the trademark Blues Brothers shades he wore on screen. In 1967, when he lay in hospital, hurt by a bullet wound in his neck from a pistol shot by a jealous rival, some fans attempted suicide.
Twenty years later he died suddenly of a heart attack. When the end came on Christmas-eve in 1987, I flew down immediately to Madras, as Chennai was then known, to cover his funeral for ASIAWEEK magazine.
Early next morning I showed up at the steps of Madras city’s Rajaji Hall, where MGR’s body lay in state. His widow, Ms VN Janaki appeared by the body for a while, and then distraught with grief, was led inside. Thousands of wailing women unloaded their grief as they filed past the body. They beat their chests and pulled their hair. Several fainted.
Shortly thereafter I glanced up and was surprised to see the film actress Jayalalithaa now seated by MGR's head. Jayalalithaa had been MGR's onscreen partner and it was widely known that their relationship extended to more.
MGR's party, the Anna DMK, draws its support from an anti-Brahminical movement in Tamil Nadu. She herself was Brahmin-born. Again, it did not matter. Her devoted fans, and MGR's clear signals that she was his political legatee, ensured that this did not dent her political popularity.
MGR's family, it was clear, despised her. But through the day Jayalalithaa sat there, refusing to budge from his side despite the hot sun beating down on us.
Whenever a camera focused on MGR she made sure that her face reflected her mourning. More than once, with no intention of clicking, I mischievously focused my Nikon FG toward her, merely to watch her promptly preparing her face for the shot that would not follow. Never once did I succeed in catching her off guard.
Thwarted, and tiring from the warm sun, I wandered inside Rajaji Hall. And then came my great moment. There he was, the most acclaimed craftsman of South Indian cinema, Sivaji Ganesan.
Many consider him the greatest character actor the region has produced. After the French gave him their version of knighthood, Sivaji came to be called 'Chevalier' by his fans.
Sivaji and MGR had known each other from young, but a rivalry was inevitable given that they vied for the same audience.
That day, clad in a white sarong and tunic, a huge white kerchief slung on his shoulder, he was happy to stand chatting with me inside Rajaji Hall. He talked of old times. Of MGR in his youth. Not once did he appear too distressed at MGR’s passing.
As we talked, a television crew came over to interview Sivaji about his reaction to MGR's passing.
The great thespian excused himself, then readied for the cameras.
As the red light on the tv camera burned to indicate it was filming, Sivaji stood there, his chest heaving.
For a long moment he seemed unable to speak. Such was the depth of his grief. A tear disengaged from an eye and rolled down his right cheek, perched there glistening in the lights.
Finally, some words came.
"Amma, amma… Appa, Appa," he started sobbing, using the Tamil words for mother and father. "Anna is gone, big brother is gone."
It is said that there was not a dry eye in Tamil Nadu that watched Sivaji grieve for his rival that day.
The red light on the camera finally went off. Sivaji paused for a moment to make sure the shot was complete. Then, he brushed away the tear and stepped back to cheerfully resume our conversation!