It isn't hard, even from a room away, to recognise movie lines scripted by MT Vasudevan Nair, when everyday words tumble out of characters as if they were carefully sewn together. You’d imagine a tiny editor sitting in their heads, redacting extra words and pauses and sending out the bare minimum. There would not be the extra hum and haw but just enough words to affect you, in one way or another, even if it was something as simple as, ‘oro divasam oro vazhikku’ – a different way everyday (from Aranyakam, 1987). This did not make the characters any less real, only brought them closer.
When MT, one of the greatest writers in Malayalam, passed away on December 25, tributes poured out, not only for the precious literature he left behind but the many movies he scripted. He sculpted not just unforgettable characters but a language that could flow out of a screen and grasp you. It was not the slang of Palakkad – the beloved birthplace of the writer – that brought the magic. It was simply MT, in his own way, uncovering the poetry of the everyday.
In Anubandham, a warm movie about a village widow (Seema) founding a school with her old master, a skeptic questions their knowledge about new education systems. Seema's character quips back, naming a new method of teaching "by M Dharan and S Nanda" that the skeptic had not heard about. She had made it up on the spot and the names -- M Dharan and S Nanda -- were derived from their own: Muraleedharan (the master) and Sunanda (herself). She’d later tell the master (Mammootty with greyed hair) about it, prompting him to say ‘budhi rakshashi aanu, sammathichu poi’ (that monster brain of yours).
MT had a few favourite coinages like these, if you notice. Budhi rakshashi would feature again, and quite aptly so, in Aranyakam, his script about a lonely teenage girl (Saleema), in love with books and wandering the woods. Vineeth, drawn by her quips and sense of humour, would call her a budhi rakshashi. Ammini, the adorably unique character, would without warning say things like, “it is sad that grandpa is dying in parts, how much do you think he’d have died now, half or one third? Surely one-third.”
If not the lines, you can spot in MT’s scripts curious habits of characters that define them more than what they reveal through words. Ammini, clearing a secluded spot for herself in the woods, would write letters to famous people. She’d write to Madhavikutty that ‘Ammini’s ‘My Story’ (Madhavikutty’s controversial autobiography) would be more terrifying than hers. But, she would later tell a character she makes friends with in the woods, “ezhuthivekkale ullu, ayakkilla” – I only write them, won’t send them.
Letter-writing also creates some beautiful moments in Aalkootathil Thaniye when Ammukutty (Seema) sends humorous notes about their village to her cousin and lover Rajan (Mammootty). Written like a news commentary, she reports that the big events of the village include three births, one wedding and one death, and sends word that the headquarters had instructed the youth to keep aside daydreaming, reading third rate books and sleeping in the day to work for the country. Mohanlal playing Rajan’s roommate tells him he is lucky to get a girlfriend with a sense of humour.
MT’s women are not all smart mouthed like Ammukutty or Ammini, some remain silent for long only to explode later. Indira (Geetha) of Panchagni is perhaps one of his most celebrated characters, an activist who cannot be a silent witness to the injustices in front of her. She doesn’t have the time to joke, she doesn’t even have many smiles left. But the few expressions and words stand out. When Rashid (Mohanlal), a journalist who tries to secure her freedom from prison, asks if she knows anything about him, she says: “Aryam, peru Rashid, matham manushyan, jaathi purushan”. Yes, name: Rashid, religion: human, caste: man.
Sometimes, a single line carries all the weight. Mohanlal, playing the guilt-ridden doctor responsible for the death of a young man in Amrutham Gamaya, is shaken when the young man’s mother finds out the truth and tells him, “konnu, alle” (killed, right?). When he says it was an accident, she only repeats that line, “engilum, konnu” (but, killed).
In Iruttinte Athmavu, one of his earliest scripts, Prem Nazir’s character is broken when Sharadha, playing another Ammukutty, the one person who had understood him, joins the chorus uttering the word: pranthan (mad man).
MT’s men, hurt and wrongly accused, are often remembered for their lengthy tirades, like the pained monologue that Chandu delivers in Oru Vadakkan Veeragatha. With a most quoted speech about Chandu’s failures (that ends with ‘there’s still more life in me only to take in more failures’), Veeragatha became a standard for MT’s unique takes on mythologies, siding with the characters he felt were unjustly put on the wrong side of history. His most famous work Randamoozham – which unfortunately did not get a movie adaptation after a long attempt – looked at Mahabharata from the perspective of Bhima, a sidelined and taken-for-granted sibling among the pandavas. Perunthachan, another critically acclaimed film, enacted by Thilakan, also looked at the story from the character written off as a jealous father who kills the son. MT’s Perunthachan was stuck between love for the son and obligation for the master, throwing light on the shackles of casteism of the era.
You’d see a younger character grappling with a similar dilemma in Nakhakshathangal, trapped between the first love of his life and the fondness for the master’s girl to whom he owes much. You can’t think of Nakhakshathangal without its music, the beginning of ‘Neeraaduvan’ or the middle verses of ‘Manjal Prasadam’ or the poetry of ‘Areyum bhavagayakan aakum’. It is interesting that one major writer of the time, ONV Kurup, wrote songs for the film scripted by another. Poetry appeared to pour out from these films. MT’s prose was never shy of being poetic and the films were accompanied by lyrics of ONV or Kaithapram or Yusufali Kechery among others. Music – the loved songs of Veeragatha, Parinayam, Vaishali, Panchagni – all coming from Bombay Ravi. There were others too including Vishal Bhardwaj (Daya) and Raghunath Seth (Aranyakam).
Despite these movies, with all those aching male characters, it is still MT’s women who linger, bringing a touch of humour into a period marked by sad female stereotypes. They were women who would talk back to men and spend time alone, unafraid to be themselves. The young ousted widow of Parinayam, or another Ammini-like loner in Ennu Swantham Janakikutty, the wisecrack slave in Daya, the wronged domestic worker defended by the betrayed wife in Neelathamara and precious Ammalukutty of Oru Cheru Punchuri. This was the last film MT directed, and Ammalukutty takes the lead along with Krishna Kuruppu, in telling the story of their camaraderie in old age, the routines and habits of village life appearing all too sweet in the hands of the couple. They have been loved and given a permanent place in the hearts of many Malayalis, if not for their adorable exchanges, marital tiffs and patchups, for the strength and vulnerability of old age. Twenty seven years after his first direction - Nirmalyam, the film that famously spat on the rigidity of religion – MT’s filmmaking only appeared to have strengthened, relying simply on the beauty of love and language.