Whom the gods love, die young

The Star and the Fans

Puneeth Rajkumar died young at 46, and at the zenith of his star power. There’s an adage, “Those whom the gods love, die young.” But how cruel on those left behind, fated to mourn the loss of the ones they loved and to traverse alone the turbulent voyage of life. But Puneeth was, in a way, fortunate. He escaped to the other world, never to know the weight of the loss of loved ones and the bitter winters of old age. He died in ‘happy spring.’

Around noon last Friday, rumours began to circulate on social media that Puneeth had been taken to hospital and had died of a sudden heart attack. There was a note of concern — stay indoors, and if you are outside, return home soon. It warned that there may be riots. Within a few minutes, I got a similar message from my wife, who runs a bakery, wondering if she should down the shutters fearing unruly elements, recalling the riots that raged after Puneeth’s father, the legendary thespian Raj Kumar’s kidnapping, and later his death. Then, she asked where our daughter was and to caution her to return home early.

By 2 pm, the death was confirmed. Swanky high-rise malls and jewellery shops swiftly unrolled nets across their frontage to protect the glass. On a whim, I drove around town to get a pulse of the people. While a vague feeling of foreboding had descended on the tonier quarters, the less-wealthier sections of the city were still abuzz, with roadside vendors and shops going about their business. Small groups of people hung around, gesticulating in disbelief at the sudden demise of the young star. Even as a pall of gloom enveloped the city, a steady stream of fans congregated near the hospital where Puneeth had been taken.

The mood was sombre. All Kannada channels were covering the untimely passing away of the popular film star. There was an outpouring of grief. It was announced that Puneeth’s body would soon be shifted to Kanteerava Stadium and kept in state for viewing by the public. By sunset, when the body arrived in a cortège to the deafening chorus of “Appu, Appu” by his fans, a sea of humanity had flooded into the stadium and its surroundings. People filed past his body all night on Friday, and then all through Saturday, too, as the last rites, which were originally scheduled for that evening, was moved to Sunday morning to await his daughter’s arrival from the US. Fans from every part of the state continued to pour into the stadium incessantly through the second night and into Sunday morning.

I walked around the stadium on Saturday morning to take a closer look at the milling crowds. I could discern that most belonged to the low income and socially backward strata of society. Ordinary people, the very blood and backbone of society. A melange of all castes and communities melted into the stadium. There were young men, women and whole families — husbands, wives, children and their grandparents in tow, jostling against one another, patiently filing past the barricades for hours to get a glimpse of their beloved celluloid hero. I wondered what passed through their minds.

The well-heeled stayed home. The celebrities and VIP politicians were conspicuous and conscious that they were there to be seen. But the common folks waiting in the long lines were immersed in the moment. They did not fear riots or violence, nor were they intimidated by the ubiquitous uniformed men wielding lathis and guns. The loss of their star whose life and screen exploits had provided them many a break, perhaps even uplifted them, from their life of hardship and drudgery, had touched a deep chord in them. So, they had headed without a thought to see the star whose light had been extinguished instantly and inscrutably. But in their zest and vigour to be part of life’s tragedy in its raw intensity, they exalted themselves. At that instant, they rose above the privileged and entitled and timid upper classes who were closeted and coddled in their cosy, cocooned dwellings. I felt a twinge of embarrassment and shame for having lost that spontaneous native touch and empathy.

Over dinner that evening, my wife remarked that many of her employees -- the cake-maker, the dough-kneader, the baker and such — told her that they had risen at 4 am that morning and had gone to the stadium and paid their obeisance after trundling through the queue for over an hour, returned home and bathed as per custom and then joined work. The social networking among these people worked differently, in stark contrast with the social media of the upper classes. While one had an encouraging, inclusive effect to join the funeral, which swelled the numbers, in the other group, it was exclusive, fearful and introverted, urging people to confine themselves to their homes. One was affirming and elevating, the other denying and despondent.

I saw that these are the same people who rise like the waves of the tumultuous seas and participate in elections in large numbers and make a difference while the cynical upper-middle-class and the rich stay home or go on vacations. They rise in protest when there is injustice and suppression and keep our democracy vibrant. It is the coming together of these forces that is a terror of ruling parties. It is their mass adoration that film actors crave and that make or mar stars, not the reams of reviews by film critics nor the tepid applause of the wealthy.

And on Sunday morning, as I strolled past the Kanteerava Stadium gates into Cubbon Park, I was swept away by the all-encompassing calm. There was not a soul around. Puneeth had already been carried away in a state carriage in the early hours to the Kanteerava Studios, where he was interred into the earth at sunrise, alongside the graves of his father and mother.

Someone said, “A man can live a good life, be famous, give to charity, but in the end, the number of people who come to his funeral is generally dependent on the weather.” What happened in the aftermath of Puneeth's death gave a lie to that saying. The scorching sun and intermittent rains, the harsh monsoon winds, and the interminable wait through the night did not deter his countless fans from trudging to the stadium and studios to pay their homage. That is the true measure of the star.

(The writer is a soldier, farmer and entrepreneur)