In the 10 years from his life that he has given us, Pa Ranjith’s most significant contribution is in giving us a Dalit artiste. Through his films, he has given us characters who felt intense love, who were afraid of it, friends who betrayed and were betrayed, walls that stood the test of time (‘Madras), a boxer determined to have it either break him or make him (‘Sarpatta Parambarai’), mothers who beat their sons when they messed up, fiery tongued wives who defended their husbands while holding their babies in one hand, and in his latest (‘Natchathiram Nagargiradhu’), a woman who not only knew when to leave, but also how.
I don’t know if he realises this but in the ten years that we’ve been watching his films, we were all really just watching him. At least I was, and I continue to. As an artiste, Ranjith has shown us what becomes possible when we continue to work despite what holds us back, despite the fear and despite the lethargy that might come from having tasted a little success.
For someone who only knew that he wanted to make films when he began and was constantly afraid that he might not get the opportunity to make films at all; Ranjith has come a long way. He is at a point where we are fortunate to be able to see what he really wants to show.
His first few films were touched and torn by producers for whom Ranjith’s films were “too political” — so he had to make many adjustments. He had to do what my mother used to do when I didn’t want to eat eggs as a young child. She’d mix it in the rice and distract me with honey. Ranjith has had to rely on tactics like this to make Indians see what runs in their blood and mind all day — caste.
Even so, it has been a delight to follow Ranjith on this journey. In an interview with film critic Baradwaj Rangan, he tells us that he has not had to change a single frame in his last two films. For an artiste to go from not having any freedom over his form to being in a position where he can say this is nothing short of a celebration.
In one of his previous interviews with Rangan, Ranjith mentions that the point of this journey for him was to walk the road ahead, with or without potholes, reach the destination anyway, and make it easier for other people to arrive there. It’s interesting that for a man who has had to walk the road alone, he’s not allowed himself to be distracted by the challenges coming his way to abandon his recognition of himself as an artiste first. Ranjith is a learner in every way. He absorbs what he reads. From what we can gather from the interviews we watch, the books we see in the backdrop of his office room seem to be the books he’s swallowed. For him, the inspiration to make films comes often from an image, a word, a sentence he says.
In the same interview with Rangan, he mentions a line he read in a novel by Shobasakthi. The line is, “The fish are singing, can you hear it?” — what Ranjith reveals here is the ability to allow himself to be moved by the things he reads. And any artiste willing to allow that for themselves or to even share what they are moved by are a rare find these days. Ranjith continues to shine in a time where people Google his name to find unappetising histories of search such as “Is Pa Ranjith a Dalit?”.
There may be this celebration, but it’s hard to forget Ranjith’s giggles as he recounts the many people who continue to wait for him to produce a ‘hit’ in the industry. The unwillingness to admit that he has arrived is laughable and brings to mind an old, forgotten american writer called Dawn Powell who once wrote —“If not capturing a public by the charm of my work, I can at least stun them by its weight” — In Ranjith’s case, it must be said that one must be dense of the sturdiest type to be unmoved by either the charm of his work or its weight.
(The writer teaches at the Department of English, St Joseph’s University).