I did not kill Gandhi
by Jeffrey Koh
Looking to the skies, staring at the sea...
Recently widowed, retired Professor Uttam Chaudhary cannot remember things, dressing up to go to a school he no longer teaches and calling out to loved ones who're no longer here. It does not take long for his daughter and son to realise their father is suffering from the degenerative Alzheimer’s disease.
As his memories begin to fade and play tricks on him, Uttam suddenly believes an outlandish notion that he was accused and subsequently incarcerated for the murder of Mahatma Gandhi. Could this sudden belief have arisen due to the demented man's scouring of old news articles? Could this have been Uttam's random act of retaliation towards his desperately weakening condition? Could there have been a deeper well of reasons, tracing all the way back to an indelibly traumatic childhood? If only there were simple answers...
I went into this movie fully aware of the odds stacked against it. This is an Indian film. It has melodramatic excesses choking its every narrative turn. The score cues its audiences at every opportunity it gets. The actors chew up the screenplay and deliver OTT performances. There is a lot of screaming, wailing and choreographed fainting. These contortionistic faces populating the movie may hence distress some Western audiences. In fact, the insensitive, politically incorrect viewer in me was half expecting the angsty cast to burst suddenly into a song and dance revue. That, however, they did not do, for very valid reasons.
The film festival booklet's synopsis has wisely alerted us all that this movie will not sing and dance. And as the film plays on, I can sense my glib defences wearing down, for I gradually realised the good intentions of "I did not kill Gandhi". Gandhi should not sing, for it laments, it cries and it heaves its weary sighs. I find myself agreeably accepting its genre boundaries, for it earns my deep respect. This film attempts to illustrate the genuine pains a debilitating disease like Alzheimer's can inflict on its sufferers, and their equally suffering loved ones.
Chronicling a man sliding down the spirals of Alzheimer's, Gandhi also gave a voice to his helpless family (in particular the sensitive filial daughter, whose plight in this movie is so tragic that I can hear those songs coming on already. But I jest unwisely...), as we see how the man's descent can so destructively drag all those around him down the same emotional abyss.
Funny how people will rejoice at the sight of babies uttering their first words. They will eagerly anticipate words and sentences that are almost certain to follow. Conversely, people despair when their Alzheimer's afflicted loved ones "momentarily" returns, when a sudden clarity reappears on his or her previously blank face. Thing is, we must gradually learn to accept that these hopeful glimpses are false and hurtful, for the sentences will inevitably reduce to words, and further evaporate to indecipherable babbles. Their lucidity will diminish. Their minds will be gone, never to come back. They will become grown up babies, who will never again utter any more rejoicing first words.
No songs written, no movies made, no words in any known language can accurately articulate the pain and hurt Alzheimer's can inflict on the damned souls. Somewhere in this movie, it was wisely observed that the loneliest man is the one who has lost himself. In attempting to depict the heartaches encircling those imprisoned by Dementia/Alzheimer's, "I did not kill Gandhi" barely scratches the surface. But it's a decent start. It touches base with the many trials and tribulations crippling the sufferers and their lucidly helpless caregivers. Yes, the destructive power of this dreadful disease does not affect the sufferer alone. It sweeps across the familial landscape and forces its inhabitants to shape up or disintergrate spectacularly. Lives will be changed, relationships will be shifted, and the strength of kinships will be rigorously tested. It is most unfortunate that such a tragic disease subjects its participants to cruel challenges. But in the process, blood bonds will be thickened, one's familial faith will be renewed and the ties that binds a family will imperceptibly bloom and strengthen.
If I am to follow the unabashed example of this courageous film, I hope for all to heed its call. Cherish your loved ones. You never know when they'll be gone. It is never too late to give them that big sloppy kiss or a huge constricting squeeze. Just make sure they do not freak out.
Recently widowed, retired Professor Uttam Chaudhary cannot remember things, dressing up to go to a school he no longer teaches and calling out to loved ones who're no longer here. It does not take long for his daughter and son to realise their father is suffering from the degenerative Alzheimer’s disease.
As his memories begin to fade and play tricks on him, Uttam suddenly believes an outlandish notion that he was accused and subsequently incarcerated for the murder of Mahatma Gandhi. Could this sudden belief have arisen due to the demented man's scouring of old news articles? Could this have been Uttam's random act of retaliation towards his desperately weakening condition? Could there have been a deeper well of reasons, tracing all the way back to an indelibly traumatic childhood? If only there were simple answers...
I went into this movie fully aware of the odds stacked against it. This is an Indian film. It has melodramatic excesses choking its every narrative turn. The score cues its audiences at every opportunity it gets. The actors chew up the screenplay and deliver OTT performances. There is a lot of screaming, wailing and choreographed fainting. These contortionistic faces populating the movie may hence distress some Western audiences. In fact, the insensitive, politically incorrect viewer in me was half expecting the angsty cast to burst suddenly into a song and dance revue. That, however, they did not do, for very valid reasons.
The film festival booklet's synopsis has wisely alerted us all that this movie will not sing and dance. And as the film plays on, I can sense my glib defences wearing down, for I gradually realised the good intentions of "I did not kill Gandhi". Gandhi should not sing, for it laments, it cries and it heaves its weary sighs. I find myself agreeably accepting its genre boundaries, for it earns my deep respect. This film attempts to illustrate the genuine pains a debilitating disease like Alzheimer's can inflict on its sufferers, and their equally suffering loved ones.
Chronicling a man sliding down the spirals of Alzheimer's, Gandhi also gave a voice to his helpless family (in particular the sensitive filial daughter, whose plight in this movie is so tragic that I can hear those songs coming on already. But I jest unwisely...), as we see how the man's descent can so destructively drag all those around him down the same emotional abyss.
Funny how people will rejoice at the sight of babies uttering their first words. They will eagerly anticipate words and sentences that are almost certain to follow. Conversely, people despair when their Alzheimer's afflicted loved ones "momentarily" returns, when a sudden clarity reappears on his or her previously blank face. Thing is, we must gradually learn to accept that these hopeful glimpses are false and hurtful, for the sentences will inevitably reduce to words, and further evaporate to indecipherable babbles. Their lucidity will diminish. Their minds will be gone, never to come back. They will become grown up babies, who will never again utter any more rejoicing first words.
No songs written, no movies made, no words in any known language can accurately articulate the pain and hurt Alzheimer's can inflict on the damned souls. Somewhere in this movie, it was wisely observed that the loneliest man is the one who has lost himself. In attempting to depict the heartaches encircling those imprisoned by Dementia/Alzheimer's, "I did not kill Gandhi" barely scratches the surface. But it's a decent start. It touches base with the many trials and tribulations crippling the sufferers and their lucidly helpless caregivers. Yes, the destructive power of this dreadful disease does not affect the sufferer alone. It sweeps across the familial landscape and forces its inhabitants to shape up or disintergrate spectacularly. Lives will be changed, relationships will be shifted, and the strength of kinships will be rigorously tested. It is most unfortunate that such a tragic disease subjects its participants to cruel challenges. But in the process, blood bonds will be thickened, one's familial faith will be renewed and the ties that binds a family will imperceptibly bloom and strengthen.
If I am to follow the unabashed example of this courageous film, I hope for all to heed its call. Cherish your loved ones. You never know when they'll be gone. It is never too late to give them that big sloppy kiss or a huge constricting squeeze. Just make sure they do not freak out.
Labels: indian cinema, siff
posted by Jeffrey Koh at 2:34 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home