“Whoever came up with the line – You can be a mother even if you’re a man – in the old Nescafe ad must have been inspired by Nathan Lane’s performance in this movie!” – is what I thought when I watched The Birdcage again a few weeks back. Made way back in 1996, the movie still retains the original charm and relevance, really, as it did, all those years ago. Briefly summarizing, The Birdcage is about a gay couple (Robin Williams and Nathan Lane) and the fact that Williams’ heterosexual son is dating the daughter of a conservative senator (Gene Hackman). The plot revolves around Hackman’s attempts to have a ‘white’ wedding for his daughter, which will offset the scandal that his party is going through – of a fellow senator dying, while soliciting the services of a coloured commercial sex worker (can this BE more politically correct???)

So we have the son requesting Williams to pretend to be straight for just one evening and send Lane away, who is upset – as he has literally brought up the boy. I love the way he has a cake sent to the boy saying something like “To my dear piglet, love, auntie”. And the rest of the story is about how Williams tries to get the real mother of his son for dinner with Hackman’s family, how she can’t make it on time as she is stuck in traffic, and how Lane fills in instead – as the boy’s mother. The relationship that develops between Hackman and Lane – Mrs. Goldman / Coleman, if you will – is endearing, to say the least.

The point that came across extremely strongly is how well Lane pulled off the role of the drag queen, in a way that probably not many others can. His gait, mannerisms, the pinky finger going up when he lifts a glass – this is authentic, at its very best. Add to this, his chosen stage name, Starina, and how can you not love him? J In fact, the movie brought to mind, one of the topics that I was considering for my masters’ thesis way back – of studying the portrayal of fathers in Indian, actually Tamil, cinema. Typically, I had the movies I wanted to study in mind and tried to weave a topic around it, instead of doing it the other way around. While I ended up choosing another topic to work on, for the thesis, I still believe that I would have loved working on a piece along these lines, with the movies in question being Anjali and the then-recently released Kannatthil Mutthamittaal.

By and large, I think Raghuvaran is one of the best actors in the Tamil film industry. I truly believe that he was capable of a lot more than the kind of roles he did. And his performance in Anjali is true vindication. While many people have expressed issues with the script per se, the performances in the movie have been memorable. Whether it was Revathi, the siblings, even Saranya in her brief role as the doctor, and Raghuvaran himself – I believe every one of them left an impact on the viewing audiences. For me, this was Raghuvaran at his best – as the husband who made an extremely difficult choice, as a father who spends every free moment that he has with his challenged daughter, as a father who goes on the offensive against other people in the building complex, who worry about the influence that his daughter may have on the rest of the children there.

The other, of course, is the film where Madhavan adopts this little girl from the orphanage in Rameshwaram and the child’s quest to find her biological mother when she comes to know that she was adopted. The innate feminist that I am, I took objection to the point that Madhavan gets into a marriage only to adopt the baby. I guess this resolved itself in my head over a period of time J but the point I’m trying to make is the beauty of Madhavan’s relationship with his daughter. And the sensitivity with which it’s been portrayed. Now contrast these roles with others like the one Mr. Bachchan plays in Mohabbatein – this is one movie that makes me want to put my hand down my throat and rip my lungs apart – or the same Mr. Bachchan’s role in Kabhie Khushi Kabhie Gham. Safe to not get started on my reactions to that movie, I guess.

All said and done, I’m convinced that Nathan Lane inspired the profound line in the Nescafe ad J

Goodbyes never get easier. Either with time or age or experience. In fact, the older you grow and the more you see and the more you let go of things – or try to – goodbyes only get tougher. Because there comes a time in your life when the number of things that really matter to you are so few that letting go of those things – and by relation, letting go of people associated with those things – is simply the most painful thing to do. Ever.

Take the simple case of friends moving away for whatever reasons. Family, work, higher studies. Isn’t it always tougher on the people who are left behind? I mean, the ones who leave do have it rough for the first few weeks or months. And then there’s all the excitement. New things to do, new people to meet, new office, new colleagues, new boss, new university, new neighbors. A whole lot of new stuff. And somewhere along the road, it gets better. And for those who stay behind? It’s about starting all over again. Without someone whose support you counted on till now. Sure, you continue to count on it in every possible virtual way. It never is the same.

Everytime someone close to me has moved on or moved away – it’s been so hard to put on a brave front because I think that might make it easier for them. But after they’re gone? I remember the time I was moving away from Bangalore to Manipal and I’d just told one of my closest friends about it. He was walking me back home and he said, “I can’t believe you’re not going to be just a phone call away.” One of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me. But I just smiled it away at that point. Just a couple of years after that, the same friend moved to the US, for his Master’ degree and then career pursuits. Sure, he’s still just a phone call away. And yet, somehow, it’s not the same.

Even when one of my closest friends at work moved out, to work with another of our offices, no less, the goodbye wasn’t easy. There is something so important about having that set of people that you see everyday, that you connect with everyday, that is vital. And I miss that. A bond where a friend knows what you’re thinking, with just a glance, a smile or the raise of an eyebrow. The difficulty in saying goodbye took on a whole new dimension for me personally, as of the beginning of this year. It doesn’t matter that distances melt and the heart grows fonder, it just doesn’t get easier. I mean, I still feel terrible everytime my closest-to-best-friend-ever travels for a couple of months for performances, at a stretch. I know I can write to her. Bloody hell, I can even talk to her. And she’s going to be back in 2 months. 3 months. 6 months. Whatever. But when I go to Bangalore, in that time, she’s not there.

These, of course, are the pleasant goodbyes. And then, there is the other kind. For a long time, I really believed that it was better to have had something and then lost it, than to have never had it at all. Whatever the object in question. Love, relationships, money. And then I was deeply influenced by the whole Siddhartha thing. That you cant truly give up something unless you’ve had it. But right now, at this point in time in my life, I can’t help but think that it’s better to not have something at all than to have it and then lose it. I really don’t miss something that I’ve never had, you know. Losing something – the anger kind of overshadows everything for a bit. But it doesn’t really last. It’s the pain that does.

Which is the reason that I was so taken in by this saying on pain by Jim Morrison: “People fear death even more than pain. It's strange that they fear death. Life hurts a lot more than death. At the point of death, the pain is over.” This makes sense to me. This also brought up an interesting exchange with a respected friend / mentor, who pointed out to me that the contrary, was, in fact, true. That this is because pain is short-lived while death is an unknown permanence. That what separates an extra-ordinary person from an ordinary one is the ability to think beyond pain, not just the ability to withstand pain itself. I’m not sure whether I necessarily agree to that. Because I personally believe that the pain never really goes away. It lessens over a period of time, it gets more comfortable, it even becomes familiar. And it’s always there.

Strangely enough, one of my favourite books is Only Love is Real by Dr. Brian Weiss. In reality, it’s pain. Only pain is real.