Mothers and Lovers in Tamil Cinema

(Painting: Courtesy Shameela Yoosuf Ali)

Mothers and Lovers in Tamil Cinema: Ashok Kumar (1941) and Mangayarkarasi (1949)

Abstract:

This essay engages with two Tamil films, Ashok Kumar (1941) and Mangayarkarasi (1949), to explore female desire through the roles portrayed by Pasupuleti Kannamba, who would later become the iconic mother of the Tamil screen, often portraying the ideal suffering woman who upholds the values of the family/nation. However, Ashok Kumar and Mangayarkarasi are transgressive in their plots, focusing on the extramarital yearnings of a stepmother and the Oedipus attracted to Jocasta in an unusual situation. Although the young Thisyarakshai is married to the older emperor Ashoka and loses her heart to her younger stepson, who has a mellifluous voice in Ashok Kumar, and the titular Mangayarkarasi, whose beauty overwhelms her son, are punished one with death, like in the case of most femme fatales, and the other with humiliation among the public assembled in a King’s court, it is their persona and transgressive acts that haunt the audience and render the films as unique in the history of Tamil cinema. Additionally, this essay also foregrounds the directorial finesse of Raja Chandrasekhar, who worked in the studios of Bombay and Calcutta, and the critically acclaimed cinematography of Jiten Banerji, who was also the director of Mangayarkarasi.

Keywords:

Ashok Kumar (1941), Mangayarkarasi (1949), Kannamba, MKT, Raja Chandrasekhar, Jiten Banerji, Tamil Cinema, P.U. Chinnappa

“You have a place in my nature which no one else could fill. You have played a fundamental part in my development. And this grief, which has been like a clod between our two souls, does it not begin to dissipate? Ours is not an everyday affection. As yet, we are mortal, and to live side by side with one another would be dreadful, for somehow, with you I cannot long be trivial, and, you know, to be always beyond this mortal state would be to lose it. If people marry, they must live together as affectionate humans who may be commonplace with each other without feeling awkward – not as two souls. So I feel it. I might marry in the years to come. It would be a woman I could kiss and embrace, whom I could make the mother of my children, whom I could talk to playfully, trivially, earnestly, but never with this dreadful seriousness. See how fate has disposed things. You, you might marry, a man who would not pour himself out like fire before you. I wonder if you understand – I wonder if I understand myself ” (D.H. Lawrence, Sons and Lovers [1999]).

Ashok Kumar: Singer and the Stepmother

Tamil cinema is no exception to Hindi in the general portrayal of the mother figure as signifying the nation, purity, or suffering, particularly when it comes to mainstream films. Nevertheless, there has always been the exception––films that offered a space for desire involving her as the lover or the loved one. I want to focus on two films that have left strong traces in my memory. For the sake of this essay, when I revisited them after decades of my initial viewing, they still hold strong regarding their subversive plots and the way they cleverly couch a taboo subject in narratives revolving around transgressive desires. Whenever it addressed a forbidden relationship revolving around mothers, the generally orthodox Tamil cinema typically contained the libido by marking them as stepmothers. Despite such an expected patriarchal trope, actresses like T.R. Rajakumari have, like the femme fatales in film noir, captivated the hearts of both male and female audiences due to their transgressive desire and the way they pursued this desire.

Here, however, my focus is different: What if an actress synonymous with playing motherly roles, like Nirupa Roy, were to fall in love with her stepson in one of her early movies directed by a master? What if such an actress, almost a decade later, literally has an Oedipus in her life who falls for her and wants to desperately marry her without knowing about their relationship, in a film directed by an iconic cinematographer, who was an institution by himself? Of such unparalleled significance are the films Ashok Kumar (1941), directed by Raja Chandrasekhar, and Mangayarkarasi (1949), directed by Jiten Banerji, who was also the cinematographer of both of these films under discussion. Jiten Banerji migrated from Bengal to Madras very early. Along with Kamal Ghosh (the cinematographer of the Gemini’s Chandralekha [dir. S.S. Vasan, 1948]), he was instrumental in training many cinematographers. Raja Chandrasekhar, the iconic Tamil cinema director of the past, who knew Banerji from his days in Calcutta with the East India Film Company, collaborated with him on Ashok Kumar. Many Tamil films were shot in the East India Film Company in Calcutta in the 1930s when Madras did not have its own studio facilities, particularly during the first half of the decade.   

Ashok Kumar borrows for its narrative the legends surrounding the Mauryan dynasty and its emperor Ashoka,  known for converting to Buddhism after realising the futility of war and bloodshed after the battle at Kalinga, where thousands of people were killed by him and his army. It is set in the 3rd Century BC (Baskaran 2013). In Ashok Kumar, Raja Chandrasekhar’s focus is different, recalling the case of masters. He draws from the mythos and legends surrounding Ashoka’s weakness for Thisyarakshai (Tisyarakshita), the second wife in the film, though legends have it that he had more than two. The director focuses on Thisyarakshai’s passionate desire for the much younger Kunalan to weave a fictional narrative predicated on desire and transgression, unfulfillment and revenge. Kunalan is her stepson and the son of Padmavathi, the emperor’s first wife in the narrative universe of Raja Chandrasekhar. The handsome Kunalan is portrayed by Tamil’s first superstar M.K. Thyagaraja Bhagavathar (MKT henceforth), whose charm in the film version available on YouTube justifies such a sobriquet. Besides, his melodious voice in 1940 informs us why Thisyarakshai would have fallen for the irresistible Kunalan on the Tamil screen. However, the preeminent historian of Tamil cinema, Theodore S. Baskaran, informs us of the provenance of the tune of one of the popular songs in the film, “Ullam Kavarumen Paavaai/Heart Captivating Beauty!”

Ashok Kumar was one of the earliest films in which songs were pre-recorded. The practice of using popular tunes from Hindi films was just beginning. The tune of the song Pia Milan Ko Jana, sung by Pankaj Mullick in Kapal Kundala (1939) was therefore used in the film (Baskaran 2013).

Raja Chandrasekhar’s past in Calcutta, through Pankaj Mullick’s popular song, could be claimed to play into Ashok Kumar. In a similar vein, MKT’s debut film Pavalakodi (dir. K. Subramanyam, 1934), was a huge success, mainly because of his voice, and paved the way for him to become a superstar through films like Naveena Sarangadhara aka Naveena Sadharam (dir. K. Subramanyam, 1936), and Sathyaseelan  (dir. B. Sampath Kumar), which had for its cinematographer, the well-known Sailen Bose, from Calcutta, who would go onto collaborate with K. Subramanyam in Sevasadanam (House of Service, 1938) and Thyaga Bhoomi (Land of Sacrifice, 1939) later. Thereafter, Chintamani (dir. Y.V. Rao), which was praised as the best Tamil film till then by Tamil’s iconic writer Pudhumaipithan in his columns in Eezhakesari (Eswaran and Thirunavukkarasu 2020), Ambikapathy (dir. Ellis R. Dungan), written by Ilangovan, who drew from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet for the love story between a princess and the court poet’s son, the titular Ambikapathy, and Thiruneelakantar (dir. Raja Sandow) entrenched MKT as the unparalleled star of Tamil cinema. They were all critically acclaimed and commercially successful films. As an astute director, Raja Chandrasekhar wanted to capitalise on MKT’s paratext as the star, “many young women swooned over and were delighted if they could touch his Chevrolet as it passed the studio gates” in Vadapalani, Kodambakkam, the headquarters of the Tamil cinema industry. Additionally, Talk-a-Tone, the early cinema journal to focus on Tamil cinema in the 1930s and 1940s, had its gossip columnist “Studio Guy” write on the many married young women among MKT’s fans and admirers. Similarly, Pasupuleti Kannamba, the Telugu actress, was making inroads into the Tamil industry then. Krishnan Thoothu (Krishna, the Messenger, dir. R.S. Prakash, 1940) was her first Tamil film, and it was followed a year later by Ashok Kumar. The Tamil cinema magazines/columns of the 1940s do allude to her being from the Devadasi community. Like Kannamba, there were great artists like T.R. Rajakumari and E.V. Saroja, among others, whose contribution to Tamil cinema has yet not been documented in detail, except in Tamil by the award-winning film historian Pa. Jeevasundari. Theodore Baskaran has recently written on the overall contribution of the Isai Vellala community. 

No doubt, MKT was already the shining star who, as the handsome son of Ashoka, could be bet on to garner the attention of Thisyarakshai, who was many decades younger than the emperor––she was younger by forty-five years, according to Tibetan Buddhist Encyclopedia (2013). It is said that the old emperor passed away a few years after marrying her. Kannamba’s acting acumen is visible right from the second scene celebrating the triumphant arrival of the young Kunalan from war when Ashoka introduces her to him as his stepmother––the wife he married when Kunalan was away fighting a victorious battle. Kannamba does not hide her excitement and makes it very clear that her alluring stepson enraptures her. (Here, we should note that the theme of the stepmother bewitched by her stepson is not new to Tamil cinema, consider, for instance, the narrative of Poornachandiran/Full Moon, made at B.N. Sircar’s New Theatres, Calcutta [dir. D.R. Das, 1935], with T.P. Rajalakshmi, the “Cinema Rani,” playing the stepmother [Sellamuthu 2022].) In Ashok Kumar, the way Jiten Banerji frames and lights Kannamba informs us of his expertise in the studio style of lighting, the backlighting or what they used to call the kicker––to kick someone out of the background, thus disallowing the artist(s) from merging with the background and creating depth, mainly through the light on the head/beautiful hair in the case of women––is noticeable. With digital technology and the pervasive greenscreen and the postproduction play with colours and their saturation, kicking has lost its aura as during the black and white Madras Studio days. Consider, for instance, Neptune Studios, where the film was shot, which was later owned in partnership by Jiten Baneji and MKT, among others. Neptune Studios also shifted base from Coimbatore to Madras City, where Ashok Kumar was shot. Jiten Banerji had the best and most secure cat-walk for lights and light-men designed at Neptune Studios, as recalled by S. Maruti Rao, the cinematographer of Andha Naal/That Day [dir. S. Balachander, 1954], and the cinematographer G. Vittal Rao, who assisted Jiten Banerji and later was the cinematographer of many of the films shot at Neptune Studios by the legendary director A. Bhimsingh, who also was one of the partners of the studio (Eswaran 2017;  Sundaram 2007). 

This industrial history is essential for us to understand how MKT and Kannamba are framed in almost an ethereal way throughout the film, visually informing us of the world of fantasy in which a beautiful young wife and her handsome and irresistible stepson are posited, with the aged Ashoka (Chittoor V. Nagaiah) providing a backdrop of wisdom and trust in his wife and the married young son. Kanchanamala, the attractive wife of Kunalan, is played by T.V. Kumudhini––Raja Chandrasekhar was also known for his impeccable casting. Baskaran sheds light on the acumen and technical finesse of Raja Chandrasekhar. He started his career in 1929 as an assistant to Fatima Begum, the first woman director, according to Baskaran, before joining the General Pictures Corporation in Bombay. He made around a dozen silent films, including Pandava Nirvahan (1930). His Tamil (talkie) films Raja Desingu and Chandramohan in 1936 were made in Bombay, whereas later he moved to Calcutta and, in East India Films Studio, which was one of the favourite studios of Tamil filmmakers in the 1930s, made Baktha Thulasidas (1937) for Murugan Talkies, Madurai. Such an experience on his part enabled the technical flourish of Ashok Kumar.

A textile engineer-turned-filmmaker, Raja Chandrasekhar, as director of the film, gave it a vibrant quality through his camera movements and angles and made good use of close-ups, dolly and crane shots. In a court dance scene, the influence of Busby Berkley is evident. However, the dominance of the spoken word continued (the dialogue was by Ilangovan) [Baskaran 2013]. 

For instance, when Kunalan is announced as the Crown Prince and crowned, Kannamba applies a tilak/vermilion mark on his forehead and says, “A mother’s look could be stinging. That’s why she is bestowed with the duty/ritual of warding off evil from her children.” Such dialogue informs us of the touch of the other star of the Tamil cinema of the period––Ilangovan, who was a critically acclaimed dialogue writer––the film opens with Ilangovan’s title card. He would later write the dialogue for Kannagi (1942), the film which became synonymous with Kannamba for the titular role and the melodramatic and florid dialogue she spoke. Thus, Kannamba belied the apprehensions surrounding the ability of a Telugu actor to speak in Tamil at a time when actors spoke live in cinema––you can see in the title card Raja Chandrasekhar proudly announcing, “this film is recorded using ‘British Acoustic’ system.” Dinshaw K. Tehrani, another regular collaborator, was in charge of sound.

Such meticulous attention to technology enables the sound and images of the mellifluous songs-driven affair of the passionate mother and her stepson. Consider, for instance, the almost 200000 hits on YouTube for a 1941 Tamil film, which is very rare. It could be attributed to the nostalgia for the melodious voice of MKT. Additionally, I would argue it is because of Ashok Kumar’s taboo subject and the yearning expressed on the screen by the salacious stepmother. The Maharani also expresses her torment and jealousy when she peeks into Kunalan and Kanchanamala’s rendezvous on a moonlit night. Additionally, as framed by Jiten Banerji, her heaving bosoms punctuate her passion for Kunalan, indicating her intense longing for him. The lead to the anticipated (moonlit) song is an absorbing dialogue situation between Kunalan and his wife Kanchanamala. He tells about the conversation between two stars in the sky he is privy to. The moon designed inside the studio and the lighting of Jiten Banerji prefigure the moonlit studio sequences that will become the signature style of another legendary cinematographer, Marcus Bartley, and the production house, Vijaya-Vauhini Studios. More importantly, the exceptional diffuser use of Jiten Banerji influenced many cinematographers of that period in their efforts to “give a romantic feel” (Sundaram 2007).

In the otherworldly conversation that follows, the imaginative lighting of the studio indoors with a star-lit sky sets up the mood for the romantic but ethereal conversation between the young couple. When Kanchanamala recalls his investment in astronomy, Kunalan claims he can understand the secret language of the stars thanks to his guru, a Buddha-bhikshu. (Here, it is relevant to note that the root Tisya in Thisyarakshai’s name indicates auspiciousness, often associated with the celestial world.) When Kanchanamala queries the details of the exchange between the romantic star couple in the sky, he invokes the starlike luminosity of the Maharani, whom one of the stars wanted to grace their world while going on a break. Kanchanamala wonders about the identity of the Maharani and is peeved when Kunalan indulges in an ornate and sensual description of the Maharani. He pacifies her by addressing her as the (would be) Maharani. Nonetheless, like a Freudian slip, the prelude to the song provides an insight into Kunalan’s subconscious desire too. “Maanida Vazhvu Perum Anandam/Worldly life is great bliss” is one of the rare songs which celebrates the material life in MKT’s repertoire that is otherwise known for its predilection for the religious and spiritual/philosophical, as exemplified by the darker doppelgänger of the above song during the latter half of the film: one of MKT’s all-time favourite, the dispirited and contemplative “Bhumiyil Manida Janmam/Human life on this earth.”  

In contrast, the cheerful Maanila Vazhvu Perum Anandam is framed as being partly sung by Kunalan through his ornately framed portrait in the amorous Maharani’s quarters in the palace. Thereafter, the implacable and unyielding Maharani will rebuff Kunalan’s plea to be left alone and frame him with her maid’s help, leading to the Maharaja deporting him from the kingdom along with his wife. Later as he wanders as a recluse, further misfortune strikes him in the form of blindness through the cruel trickery of the Maharani. The deus ex machina of the Buddha bhikshu will finally restore his eyesight and reinstate him as the rightful heir to the throne, while the guilty Maharani commits suicide, and the Maharaja wants to go on pilgrimage eventually. The ritual of the family coming together takes place not only in a Buddha Vihara but in the very presence of the Buddha himself, who enables the blind Kunalan to see again. The significant scenes and the montage when Kunalan wanders with his wife and sings regarding the futility of desire/lust and wrath (songs like the above mentioned, “Bhoomiyil Maanida Janmam”) prefigure Jiten Banerji’s cinematography and the rare outdoor shots/sequences in Meera (dir. Ellis R. Dungan, 1945). More importantly, the iconic Meera, the other young married woman, followed her heart and passion, albeit in her own ethereal universe undergirded by mythos. 

Nonetheless, as in much Tamil cinema, the Maharani Thisyarakshai has to pay the price: she is punished, but the Maharaja Ashoka goes scot-free, not held accountable for marrying a much younger woman just four years before his death. Buddhist chronicles like Mahavamsa (Mahanama 2018) and Asokavadana/Narrative of Ashoka (Strong 2014) detail how Ashoka’s deep bond with and attention to the Bodhi Tree invoked the wrath of the jealous Tissarakkha (Thisyarakshai), who mistook the tree to be one of the many mistresses of the emperor. The chronicles differ in the responses of the vengeful Maharani. In Ashokavadana, she destroys it through a sorceress and later on comes to know that it is a tree, tries to heal it, whereas, in Mahavamsa, the tree is destroyed. Nonetheless, a sapling gets transported and planted in Sri Lanka. Bodhi Tree is often referred to as a fig tree, which is known for its centrality in the mythology of various cultures and religions. From the Biblical Adam and Eve cladding themselves with fig leaves to the yoni-like fig leaf symbolizing the enlightenment-seeking Eastern man’s desire to control his impulses. Additionally, the ornate fig leaves have also been used by painters to cover the genitals. On the one hand, Tissarakka’s actions to destroy the tree symbolizes her protest against the older Ashoka’s hypocrisy of being a strong advocate of Buddhism externally but not introspecting his uncontrollable sexual desire, which made him marry the young Tissarakka when she came to regale him with her dance, particularly after the passing away of his wife. On the other, the fig is also known in folklores for its testosterone-enhancing powers. Science also corroborates it. Tissarakka’s gesture of destroying the Bodhi Tree in jealousy, although the concoction of men’s imagination to ridicule a femme fatale figure from the fringes, who is also finally contained and destroyed, as someone who is not intelligent enough to differentiate an iconic Bodhi tree from a mistress, deconstructs the misogyny at the heart of the patriarchal universe. Besides, it also indicates her anxiety surrounding the emperor as a philanderer through her own lived experience. 

Just as Thisyarakshai is caught between the father figure of Ashoka and the lover/stepson Kunalan, Sati or Parvathi is also caught between her father Daksha and spouse/lover Siva in Raja Chandrasekhar’s film, Daksha Yagnam/The Fire Sacrifice of Daksha (1938). Ultimately, like Thisyarakshai, the Mother of all mothers, Parvathi/Sati, is also roasted in the fire when she commits sati by jumping into the fire and the two men responsible for her death, Daksha and Siva, go unpunished and their bloated egos untamed. The following year in 1939, and just before Ashok Kumar, Raja Chandrasekhar fulfilled the dream of paying homage to his master V. Shantaram by remaking Maya Macchindra in Tamil. The iconic Shanataram’s Maya Macchindra (1932) was made in Marathi and Hindi and was one of the seminal films of the sound era. Produced by the iconic Prabhat Studios, Maya Macchindra had legendary artists like Govindrao Tembe, Durga Khote, Master Vinayak, and Baburao Pendharkar as its main actors. Based on Tibetan and Indian myths, the story revolves around a Tantric master Macchindranath (Tembe), and his disciple Gorakhnath (Vinayak). The guru breaks his vow of celibacy when he gets attracted to a queen (Khote) who challenges his Tantric powers with her own magical abilities. But his magic wand of the mantra “Alakh Niranjan,” which became most popular among the people because of the film, undo the queen’s abilities to contain his spiritual powers and confine him. 

Nevertheless, her beauty enamours him, and he falls for her, forgetting his vow of celibacy and even marrying her. The disappointed disciple Vinayak moves away to do his own penances and acquires, like his guru, tantric powers to return and retrieve him with the queen’s consent. The latter agrees for her husband to pursue his spiritual path when their dead infant son is brought back to life by Gorakhnath. Finally, the framing narrative invokes Lord Siva and explains how this was all a play (Maya) by him (in the garb of Macchindranath) to test a woman regarding her willingness to allow a man to pursue the superior path of spirituality and reaffirm the purpose of life and the significance and eternity of Atma/soul that is superior to the body. Here too, we can see that the queen, despite her status, is reduced to being an expendable mother whose wayward husband, despite his spiritual accomplishments, is not held accountable for sharing the responsibility of bringing up their son. In fact, the queen is made to feel guilty and choose between her husband and her son by the supposedly enlightened Gorakhnath in a critical moment towards the climax. In Raja Chandrasekhar’s equally successful Tamil version, M.K. Radha, M.R. Krishnamurthi, and M.B. Radhabai played the guru, disciple, and queen.

Mangayarkarasi: Mother, Oedipus, and the Nymph

(Image Courtesy: Pixabay.com)

“Chorus:

‘man after man after man

o mortal generations

here once

almost not here

what are we

dust ghosts images a rustling of air

nothing nothing

we breathe on the abyss

we are the abyss

our happiness no more than traces of a dream

the high noon sun sinking into the sea

the red spume of its wake raining behind it

we are you

we are you Oedipus

dragging your maimed foot

in agony

and now that I see your life finally revealed

your life fused with the god

blazing out of the black nothingness of all we know

I say

no happiness lasts nothing human lasts” (Sophocles, Oedipus Rex [Dain 2006]).

Eight years later, in 1949, Jiten Banerji wrote and directed Mangayarkarasi (the Queen Among [Chaste] Women). Contrary to her name, Mangayarkarasi is sullied, insulted, and punished. Additionally, as is the norm in most Tamil films with such titular female characters, her chastity is questioned in the public sphere. Kannamba plays the titular Mangayarkarasi in this film with P.U. Chinnappa, the other major star and the rival of MKT, who plays her husband (Kantharoopan, the crown prince), and her father-in-law (Madhurangathan, the King), as well as her son Sudhaman––P.U. Chinnappa played triple roles and the comedian N.S. Krishnan, arguably the greatest comedian on the Tamil screen, plays a double role. More significantly, in one of her early appearances in Tamil cinema, Anjali Devi reprises the role of a celestial nymph she played in the Telugu film, Gollabhama (dir. C. Pullaiyya, 1947), which inspired Mangayarkarasi. The story of the Telugu original was credited to the famous writer Madhira Subbanna Deekshitulu and his stories of ‘Kaasi Majili’ (2005), which provided the base for successful cinematic folklore films like Patala Bhairavi and Gulebakavali (Srinivas 2001). As Deekshitulu’s multi-part anthology drew from popular myths and legends, the Tamil version of Mangayarkarasi is also credited to “Thayai Pendaalavanthavan Kathai/Story of the guy who enslaved/beguiled his mother” in song booklets. However in the film, the son gets enchanted with and captivated by the mother. 

Significantly, Anjali Devi’s paratext as a married woman with two children who came to act disavowed and denied the fodder for gossip magazines and yellow journals like Indu Nesan, which followed the path of Cinema Thoothu, in continuing its investment on the juicy stories revolving around (often the imagined, promiscuous) lives of stars. In this regressive backdrop, the audacious Anjali Devi, who entered the film industry along with her music-director husband, became a signifier of untamed desire, as exemplified by her many memorable roles of the nymph or the insatiable ghost woman (Mayakkari, dir. P. Shridhar, 1951). Even the films she produced like the folkloric multilinguals, Manalane Mangayin Bhagyam/Spouse is the Maiden’s Fortune (dir. 1957) and Mangayar Ullam Mangatha Selvam/Maiden’s Heart, the Luminous Opulence (dir. Vedantam Raghavaiah, 1962), had space for women’s desire in the form of not only angels and apsaras descending from heaven but mermaids popping up from the water and the subterranean world. Consider, for instance, Jayanthi (Rajasulochana) in Manalane Mangayin Bhagyam who is the cursed female version at night of the protagonist Jayanth (Gemini Ganesan) falling head over heels for the princess Prathima Devi (Girija), providing the space for female desire, which in its absurd humor and the closeted palatial space is reflexive of the conservative and constraining patriarchal society. Similarly, actress Jayanthi as the mermaid is bewitched by the protagonist and holds him captive in Mangayar Ullam Mangatha Selvam. 

But Mangayarkarasi prefigures such a unique star text of Anjali Devi, underpinned by desire in some of her notable folkloric films. She plays Sashikala (Moonlight or the moon’s luminescence), a celestial being who descends on earth and instantaneously abducts her object of desire, the Crown Prince, as she is charmed by him right at their first encounter. The wife (Kannamba) is at a loss to know the whereabouts of her husband, and she is further in a maze when Sashikala, to appease the longing husband, transports her to the heavenly abode, wherein she could spend a night with her husband. Thereafter when the wife is swiftly returned to earth, the folkloric melodrama takes over. Mangayarkarasi gets pregnant (in the absence of her husband) and is suspected of having an affair with the court poet, played by the charming Kambadasan––the lyricist of the film and the Marxist ideology driven rare poet of Tamil cinema. The King orders capital punishment by the severing of her head, but through divine intervention, due to her chastity as a “pure” wife, she is saved when invisible attackers thwart the soft-hearted executors of the King’s will. Similarly, after she gives birth to her son amongst a compassionate indigenous community, a cunning priest abducts her infant son for sacrifice. At the critical moment when the priest tries to strike the child with a sword after a ceremonial song sequence, with a lilting dance by the beautiful young Padmini along with her sister Lalitha, Goddess Kaali intervenes and saves the child. Serendipitously the King arrives there and embraces the child and takes him to his palace. In the meanwhile, Mangayarkarasi vainly searches for her son through various terrains, providing the space for the iconic Banerji to showcase his unparalleled skills in available light photography. Later, she is trapped by the trickery of a woman who leads her to the whorehouse from where she escapes. All these scenes are juxtaposed with songs and the romantic advances of Sashikala that are spurned by the abducted Crown Prince in the heavenly abode, and the worried King in his palace. Thereafter, through melodramatic coincidences and serendipity, the grandson and the grandfather are united, and he grows up into an adolescent who makes his rounds in the city at night. 

One of his nocturnal meanderings leads him to a chance encounter with an elegant lady––her motherly charm entices him. He thus falls in love with his mother in unawareness. He again tries to meet her but to no avail. So he keeps yearning for her and singing in his melodious voice in his abode in the palace. Here again, through a framed portrait, Kannamba appears in his romantic dream during a song, the famous duet “Parthaal Pasi Theerum/Gaze will quench the craving,” recalling the traces of transgressive desire from Ashok Kumar that continue to haunt the Tamil screen––the only difference being in Mangayarkarasi it is punctuated as Oedipal. Towards the end, the mother ends up in the court of the King, wherein her son accuses her of being a “loose woman.” The King is shocked by his grandson’s transgression and chaos reign when Sashikala, as the deus ex machina magically descends into the palace along with the long-lost husband, reveals the secret behind the birth of his son and resolves the issues making way for the happy ending. Nonetheless, Ashok Kumar and Mangayarkarasi have made Kannamba a unique mother, unparalleled in the history of Indian cinema, although her later career foregrounds her as the quintessential Indian mother who lives (and dies) for her family at the cost of her individuality and yearnings, as exemplified by her role of Padmavathi, the mother of the titular Manohara (dir. L.V. Prasad, 1954).

Song Sequences and the Derridian Parergon

(Image Courtesy: Shameela Yoosuf Ali)

“Delight, then sorrow

aboard the cormorant

fishing boat” (Matsuo Basho [Hamill 2011]). 

More importantly, the ornate frame of the portrait inside the palace plays a major role in both Ashok Kumar and Mangayarkarasi, as it recalls Derrida’s meditation on the frame or parergon:

The parergon stands out [se d tache] both from the ergon (the work) and from the milieu, it stands out first of all like a figure on a ground. But it does not stand out in the same way as the work. The latter also stands out against a ground. But the parergonal frame stands out against two grounds [fonds], but with respect to each of those two grounds, it merges [se fond] into the other. With respect to the work which can serve as a ground for it, it merges into the wall, and then, gradually, into the general text. With respect to the background which the general text is, it merges into the work which stands out against the general background. There is always a form on a ground, but the parergon is a form which has as its traditional determination not that it stands out but that it disappears, buries itself, effaces itself, melts away at the moment it deploys its greatest energy. The frame is in no case a background in the way that the milieu or the work can be, but neither is its thickness as margin a figure. Or at least it is a figure which comes away of its own accord [s’enl ve d’elle m me]. (Italics mine) [Derrida 1987: 61]

We can see the frame melting in both the songs discussed above, blurring/merging with the inside/outside, mainly “when it deploys its greatest energy.” Here the frame inside the palace is the totem regarding the sovereign’s taboo, separating the royal from the quotidian, the ideal/normative from the transgressive. But the energy of instincts and impulses disavow the frame in their flow across the borders. What is significant is the predicament of Thisyarakshai as the young second wife of the older Ashoka. Right from the beginning, when the King introduces her to his charming son, she is bitten by his beauty and melodious voice. Thereafter, in many of the scenes, including the song, “Maanila Vazhvu Peru Anandam/Worldly life is great bliss,” discussed in detail above, shot under the moonlight, we see her alone and lured by the direction where the song comes from and the magnetic voice of her stepson. Even when she explicitly confesses about her longing for him, and, as expected, he rejects her advances, they are framed in the privacy of her quarters. Later, the conniving maid helps in her conspiracy to wrongly punish the innocent Kunalan and throw him, along with his wife, out of the palace for having violated her modesty. The King, as expected, is absent through these vengeful designs and acts of Thisyarakshai towards Kunalan for having spurned her and arrives, as always, late to naively believe her and ostracize his son by ordering his immediate deportation. The King is just a pretext to bookend scenes where the desire and yearning of Thisyarakshai take center stage in ways unparalleled in Tamil cinema. 

Later, when the King is bedridden and intensely longing for the presence and proximity of his son, we see the son and his wife as nomads, singing and begging for survival. The rejected and desolate Thisyarakshai’s vengefulness knows no bounds as she goes after the already destitute Kunalan further by manipulating the manuscript of the King on a palm leaf with a message for Kunalan to immediately return to the palace. Instead, she changes the King’s words and asks Kunalan for his eyes by ordering his blindness with the official seal. On seeing his father’s order, the ever obedient Kunalan does not think for a moment and blinds himself with hot rods. While the blindness entrenches the philosophical turn in the innocent Kunalan and paves the way for the flourish and finesse of MKT as the most melodious male singer of Tamil Cinema of the last century, through songs like “Maname Nee Eeesan Naamathai/Sing to the Lord with all your heart,” it leads to the deterioration of the King’s health and the loneliness of Thisyarakshai. Her plight recalls Derrida’s profound thoughts on the parergon regarding his challenging/deconstructing of “the idea that the artwork possesses an essence that is already present and complete” (Bernstein 1992: 168, quoted in Duro 2019):

The first time I am occupied with folding the great philosophical question of the tradition (“What is art?” “the beautiful?” “representation?” “the origin of the work of art?” etc.) on to the insistent atopics of the parergon: neither work (ergon ) nor outside the work [hors d’oeuvre], neither inside nor outside, neither above nor below, it disconcerts any opposition but does not remain indeterminate and it gives rise to the work. It is no longer merely around the work. That which it puts in place––the instances of the frame, the title, the signature, the legend, etc.––does not stop disturbing the internal order of discourse on painting, its works, its commerce, its evaluations, its surplus-values, its speculation, its law, and its hierarchies. (Derrida 1987: 9).

The determinate frame encompasses something which is “indeterminate” or unstable/incomplete inside. The Derridian “supplement” of the frame gives the cohesiveness and renders the uncontainable, defines its limits, and completes it. Without the frame, the painting––portrait, in this case, will be incomplete. The outside, nonetheless, blurs the borders and draws attention to the inside and the around, and the behind and the beyond. The gradually emaciating energy of Thisyarakshai, as if life itself is drained out of her with the denial of her desire, foregrounds her loneliness and the absence/non-presence of the King. The ailing King looks older, and the isolated Thisyarakshai is sad but still young. The pathos of a young woman getting married as a second wife to an older man could not be contained and is indeterminable: The lonely Thishyarakshai is framed on her bed as she is lying down pondering at night when Kunalan sings to his wife the lines “Maanida Vazhvu Peru Anandam/Human life is bliss.” The voice of Kunalan and the lyrics have an alluring effect on Thishyarakshai, who moves as if hypnotised in the direction of the sound. But Kunalan is away and singing a romantic song for his wife. A disappointed Thisyarakshai suffers from viraha/separation, a significant bhava (emotional tendency) in Indian aesthetics, which foregrounds the void due to the longing of the beloved as she moves away back inside her quarters towards her bed when the camera pans to the ornately framed portrait of the prince on the wall nearby. The frozen Kunalan in a loose mid-shot in the portrait comes to life through a transient dissolve and sings as if addressing his stepmother Thisyarakshai in her imaginings. 

The camera tracks into Kunalan’s portrait as he is singing. As the camera moves into the frame to compose a closeup of the singing Kunalan, the gilt-edge borders around the portrait disappear during the line, “En Mana Unmai Nilai Nee Arivai/You know my state of my mind/Eduthuraithum Maunam Padaithinai Anbe/Despite my elucidation, you are silent.” The sadness and longing in Thisyarakshai’s face transform into cheerfulness and glee when Kunalan solicits her consent: “Un Mana Sammatham Undo Illayo/Do you accept (my love) or not.” After Thisyarakshai’s joyful reaction, we see Kunalan, who is well outside the frame (of the mirror) behind, in a mid-long shot walking towards Thisyarakshai, as he sings, “Unarnthu Magizha Veli Kaattalagadho?/Please acknowledge, so that we could feel blissful.” Overwhelmed with joy, Thisyarakshai rushes to the adjacent (puja/prayer) room, brings a garland, and tries to place it around his neck when the figure of Kunalan disappears, and the garland falls on the ground, to her shock and dismay. The garland as the frame to contain the (sex) appeal of Kunalan fails. The parergon/embellishment is not able to contain the ergon/content of the desire/artwork of her imagination.

The above scene forebodes the later suffering of Kunalan when he blinds himself. Raja Chandrasekhar, the director of Ashok Kumar, is justly regarded as one of the pioneers of Tamil cinema as far as finesse in storytelling is concerned. Here he draws a parallel between Kunalan and Oedipus. Unlike the physical death/murder of the father in Sophocles’ seminal play Oedipus Rex (429 BC) or Shakespeare’s Hamlet, Kunalan’s voluntary blinding of himself instantaneously on receiving the palm manuscript could be read as symbolic of killing his father since he is aware of the profound affection of his father as the only son and how much his actions would add to the misery of the already forlorn King. The excess of attachment in the bonds between sons and fathers in patrilineal society is predicated less on love and more on carrying on the legacy and, more importantly, the inheritance of the kingdom and wealth. It is the patrilineal inheritance and the greed to pass on the land/power that uses affection as a screen to obscure the conflictual relationship between the father and the son: Kunalan’s blindness could be read as a metaphor for the obfuscation of the harsh reality and the conflict between him and his father regarding the libidinous Thishyarakshai. What is significant is the lack of objectivity in the King despite having surrounded himself with Buddhist monks when it comes to the possession of the young Thishyarakshai, who is in a way held captive by him denying her the sought sexual fulfilment. Alternatively, the act of Kunalan blinding himself could be read as a repetition of Oedipus’s behaviour when he came to know that he had married Jocasta, his own mother. Kunalan’s yearning for the Maharani, which can only signify Thishyarakshai, comes through clearly in the anecdote he tells his wife Kanchanamala regarding the conversation between the stars he heard. Furthermore, the song sequence above, despite being framed from the point of view of Thisyarakshai, is continuity and an expression of his unbound passion for his charming stepmother, as exemplified by his detailing of the beauty of the Maharani to his wife, though he wastes no time in alluding to her as the would-be-Maharani he was referring to, and pacifies her indignation. As the femme fatale in film noir, it is Thishyarakshai who fills our thoughts, as she wears her longing heart on her ornate sleeve, even after she commits suicide and Kunalan regains both his eyesight and the kingdom. There is also the other myth surrounding Kunalan’s blindness and the death of Thisyarakshai, which absolves the emperor of her death.

When the Chandragupta Sabha led by Radhagupta (the then minister (Mahaamatya) of the Mauryan Empire) decided that Kunal would proceed to subjugate the revolt of Takshashila (Taxila), Tishyaraksha conceived a plot. The plot succeeded after the conquest by Kunala. As per the plot, Ashoka had to request two very precious jewels from the governor of Takshashila which were believed to have been the most unique of their kind. The decisive language of the letter written by Tishyaraksha was sent by Ashoka who did not understand the hidden meaning … However, Kunala immediately understood the hidden meaning, but due to his love towards his father and his loyalty towards Magadha, he felt forced to blow off his own eyes. Then he sent both of his eyes to the court of Magadha at Pataliputra. Ashoka realized his fault but by then it was too late. Immediately Radhagupta ordered to slay Tishyaraksha. It is believed that Tishyaraksha committed suicide after coming to know of this news (Tibetan Buddhist Encyclopedia 2013).

In this narrative, there is a parallel drawn between eyes and jewels. The nuanced language connotes eyes that the emperor misses. Not unlike the yearning eyes within the ornate gilt-edged frame of the portrait, whose language Thisyarakshai understood, unlike the oblivious emperor. If Ashok Kumar recalls Sophocles’ iconic Oedipus Rex, Mangayarkarasi invokes the Tamil classic Silapathikaram by Ilangovadigal, particularly in its climactic scenes of the titular Mangayarkarasi seeking justice. Derridian intervention regarding the parergon as a supplement that determines the indeterminate artwork that it encompasses applies to Mangayarkarasi as well. Here, during the song, “Parthaal Pasi Theerum/Gaze will quench the craving,” the frame again plays a central role. It is the quintessential scene of the movie/narrative predicated on transgressive desires. In this case, the ornate gilt-edged frame encloses the portrait of the mother instead of the son. Unlike in Ashok Kumar, where a significant segment of the song sequence was framed by Thishyarakshai’s imagination, in Mangayarkarasi, the Oedipal son dreams about his mother and longs for her without being aware of his relationship with her, recalling the tragic hero of Sophocles. In his dream, the long-separated son walks towards the powerful portrait in the wall, embellished by an elaborate frame with ornately embossed, gilt-edged borders. It is the portrait of the erstwhile Crown Princess, who has been ostracised for her apparent affair with the court poet in the absence of her husband. As the son walks towards the large portrait in his dream and sings, he expresses his yearning for her in no uncertain terms. He is so enamoured by her beauty that even a glimpse of her would assuage his hankering: “Pankaja Vadana Sengani Vai Sirippai Paarthal Pasi Theerum/The sweet and juicy smile of your lotus face will quench my thirst!” Mangayarkarasi, the mother, comes alive through a short dissolve from stillness to life and responds to his call. However, she addresses him as a child: Paalagane Un Seela Thirumugathai Parthaal Pasi Theerum/My longing will be appeased if I see your graceful face, (dear) son.” Her response disturbs him, but he recovers soon as he is overwhelmed by her loveliness. He further reminds her of how she vanished after showering her love on a moonlit night before. He recounts how she descended as a Gandharva Mohini/Celestial enchantress on the chariot of wind to captivate his heart. She responds by saying how under the moonlight, when she saw him, her unwavering affection for him made her dizzy. Though she addresses him as “En Magane/My son,” it does not sink in, and he delightfully keeps singing till she freezes again within the frame. Here, too, the content within the frame is uncontainable as her emotions as a mother who is affectionate but also attracted towards her son is punctuated by the refrain, “Paathal Pasi Theerum/Glance will quench the craving.” Besides, she too invokes the (romantic) moonlit encounter, though from the subjectivity of a longing mother. Nonetheless, she too is drunk with love and dizzy like him, and her yearning for him knows no limits. The supplemental embellishment of the parergon/frame tires to bind/complete what is unfinished and irrepressible. Their mutual attraction transgresses any rigid border. Ironically, as mentioned above, the song was written by the well-known lyricist Kambadasan, who also played the role of the (sympathetic) poet––the rumoured lover of Mangayarkarasi when her husband was away.

In the climactic scene at the King’s court when she is maligned by the same son as a loose woman and a prostitute when he refuses to accept her as his mother, Mangayarkarasi responds by asking the King if it is alright for the accuser, who is the heir apparent, to stroll at night to inspect and guard the Kingdom and its subjects, to womanize and frequent whore houses and rape women? The King is appalled and incensed at the charge and rebukes his grandson for his behaviour unworthy of a ruler. When he rues at his fate and grows despondent at his grandson and cynical at the character of his daughter-in-law, Mangayarkarasi, in keeping with the melodramatic traditions of Tamil cinema, keeps affirming her chastity by asserting that she is a Pathivirathai/Virtuous wife, holding up the virtue of the rich lineage of pure women and the Magatha dynasty where she comes from. The King derisively responds, “How could your purity be trusted when you have lived in a whorehouse, obeying the orders of its chief/madam?” She defends herself: “Just because I spent time in a whorehouse, does it mean I am a prostitute?” The son joins the King: “You cannot be trusted. You are a woman of loose morals … [Addressing the assembly] Of all the people, why did I take birth from her?” When the son takes his sword and approaches her, saying, “Instead of  becoming a victim of shame and guilt, you are better off dead!” As he raises the blade to thrust into her, his hand freezes since a bolt of lightning strike the sword, which falls off to the ground. Mangayarkarasi recounts all the sufferings she went through in her life, which does not allow her to end her misery through death. Then in a poetically written monologue, she wonders if “Penjanmam Enbathu Punjanmam Thano/Is being a woman being wounded/scarred?” Thereafter in a profoundly melancholic state, she questions the existence of God, arguing for the irrationality behind faith and the absence of justice in the world. Soon she asks herself how such words could come from her mouth and reaffirms the power of virtuous women through the myths of Nalayini, Anasooyai, and Savithri. As she hails their pathivrata sakthi/virtuousness, her chastity, like in the case of Kannagi, whose purity set the entire Madurai City on fire, sets the whole palace and the Kingdom on fire. Jiten Banerji again showcases his virtuosity in indoor lighting and special effects as we see lightning and fire engulfing the frame with people frantically trying to escape the falling structures. It is at this critical moment, Sashikala descends from her heavenly abode with the long-absent husband of Mangayarkarasi––the Crown Prince, and clears the doubt regarding the birth of his son and affirms the faithfulness and chastity of Mangayarkarasi, thus bringing order and a happy ending to the narrative instantaneously. Significantly, Sashikala conjures up the Crown Prince through a garland that she tosses in front of the King. On returning to earth, the Crown Prince Kantharoopan praises his wife Mangayarakarasi for her commitment and commends her karpu/chastity for resolving the problems and extolls her as a Goddess on this earth and the pride of women. Besides chastity, karpu also signifies, according to George Hart (1973, 243), “the restraint of immodest impulses,” a quality rendered ambiguous by the film. Though the film ends with young women doing the regular ritual of aarti/prayers expressing their wishes and gratitude to Kantharoopan and Mangayarkarasi, when the final title card of “Subham” literally punctuates the “happy” ending, the parergon of the ornate frame at the end leads to the uncontainable libido of the figure instrumental for their union, Sashikala, who could anytime intervene again, as an emblem of transgressive desire which knows no bounds and does not submit itself to the contours of any frame. Thus, one could argue the attempt to frame desire leads us to the slippery and metonymical displacement of libido, signified here by the ethereal Sashikala, who foregrounds that the only thing that is stable inside is the continuing deferral.

What is a frame? Is ornament of the work or outside it? Derrida provides an illuminating example: Lucas Cranach’s Lucretia, 1533 (Staatliche Museen Preussische Kulturbesitz, Gemäldegalerie, Berlin) which is reproduced in a (barely adequate) black and white photograph. Cranach’s Lucretia holds the point of a dagger to her chest while, with the other hand, she positions a diaphanous veil over her upper thighs. She wears a necklace but is otherwise unclothed. Derrida asks “. . . where is the parergon? Should one regard as a parergon the dagger which is not part of her naked and natural body and whose point she holds turned toward herself, touching her skin (in that case only the point of the parergon would touch her body, in the middle of a triangle formed by her two breasts and her navel)? A parergon, the necklace that she wears around her neck?” (57). … The parergon is “lacking in something and it is lacking from itself” (56). What works, what labors is the frame: “The frame labors [travaille] indeed. Place of labor, structurally bordered origin of surplus value, i.e., overflowed [débordée] on these two borders by what it overflows, it gives [travaille] indeed” (75). In other words, the production of meaning is absent from what one might call “pictorial content” and is deferred to the frame which is the site of the picture’s placement in the process of différance. (Worrall 1989) 

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