Nairs in cinema: How the stereotypes are reinforced
Part II of the ‘Being Naired’ series
Now, let us (me, I mean) take a break from the annals of history, as unfinished books, underlined referrals and refreshing insights on the history of Nairs await me, with a detour into the world of Nairs in popular entertainment.
I am just an average reader, which means, my understanding of the Nair history in Malayalam literature is practically zilch. I know that MT Vasudevan Nair, the Jnanpith winner, has unabashedly documented of the decline of the Nair ‘dominance’ in Malabar.
The honest-to-goodness writing of MT gives us a credible (as most of them are first-hand or based on his observations) account of how the matrilineal system (more on that in due course) resulted in scheming ‘uncles’ who took their sisters for a ride, leaving the children of these women often in abject penury or an escape to Mumbai or the military (which, as we will see, also contributed to the fanning out of Nairs all over the world).
In an interview, MT once told me: “Writing is all about experience. My experiences in Koodallur, where I was born and brought up, are my assets, my storehouse. I have much from it but some are left. Everyone has a geographical area to their lives ...”
His novels such as Asuravithu are classic literary takes on the ‘plight’ of the majority of Nairs in post-Independence and post- the historical Land Reforms Act of Kerala under the world’s first democratically elected Communist government.
It is no surprise that Nairs at one point towered over the literary scene of Kerala, what with Mathrubhumi, founded by KP Keshava Menon serving as the cradle for writers. Perhaps, Nairs had the advantage of being educated while others were still catching up, breaking free off the shackles of being ‘downtrodden’.
But then, it was also the era that eminent writers like Vaikom Muhammad Basheer, with no literary pedigree to boast, stunned Malayalis with his forthright writing.
It would be foolhardy for me to get deeper into the literary realm for the simple fact that I am ignorant. And it is even foolhardier to bracket the writers based on their castes — because for one, they never flaunted it, at least not on the surface (books just went by the authors’ names such as MT, Uroob or Thakazhi) and literature was beyond the realm of such pettiness. I have no intention to stir that pot either.
Many of the works of these masters were made into films — but naturally — which mark the silver screen documentation of Nairs. Yet, there was little on the part of the actors themselves to parade their castes — especially at a time when most actors adopted pseudonyms. This not only gave them universality it helped build the secular fabric of Kerala that is now fast eroding.
I doubt if anyone probed into the caste of Sathyan, and if Chirayinkeezhu Abdul Khader decided to name himself as Prem Nazir, so be it. Madhavan Nair opted to be known as Madhu and no one asked for his surname. People might have known that Jayan, Soman and Sukumaran were Nairs but none cared; they definitely didn’t flaunt the ‘tag.’ Vincent might have been the Nivin Pauly of his time, but no one cared (nor care) about their faith.
Even Kerala’s first ‘super-star’ — Thikkurussi Sukumaran Nair — whose Jeevitha Nauka was a cult-classic simply went by his name Thikkurussi while noted lyricist and director P Bhaskaran refused to be known by his ‘Menon’ heritage while the legendary Ramu Kariat (who grew up in the village of Chuttuva, inspired by the lives of toddy-tappers and agrarian workers) needed no upper-caste credentials to display such directorial acumen that continues to withstand time.
Not surprisingly, when Mammootty burst into the scene, he once opted for the safe ‘Sajin’ (in Sphodanam) only to quickly realise that Malayalis hardly cared about a man’s faith if he was super-talented.
Mohanlal didn’t need a Nair tag to earn acceptance — and his fan-base is undisputedly cosmopolitan. (That the comment boxes and fan comments of today on the social networks shows religious bias has nothing to do with the actors but with the narrow-mindedness of the people, which is reaching aggravating proportions today as new lobbies take shape in Malayalam cinema). Kerala’s finest actor Bharat Gopy nor today his son Murali Gopy used caste as props while Prithviraj goes by Prithviraj Sukumaran.
We did not have actresses using ‘surnames’ before the 80s-90s, until Neena Kuruppu, Manju Warrier, Navya Nair, Samyuktha Menon et all came in with their stylised ‘tails’ while their predecessors Ambika, Vidhubala, Shobhana, Urvashi, Revathi, Parvathy (Jayaram) et al stood tall on their first-names, and several of them as well as others such as Sheela, Jayabharathi, Karthika and Nayanthara, took on pseudonyms that gave no inkling of their caste — although they did pass off as ‘Hindus’ — for whatever reason.
Can’t blame the ladies, can we, when directors too resorted to the same course, with the names Sasikumar and Kamal, inadvertently no doubt, evoking a sense of caste-lessness.
Of course, no account of female actors in Malayalam cinema will be complete without the harrowing tale of PK Rosy, a Dalit Christian and the first heroine of Malayalam’s first film, Vigathakumaran, who apparently was pushed to anonymity because it irked the Nairs that she played a ‘Nair woman’ in the film. Perhaps, this could have resulted in many heroines playing it safe — not revealing any caste or religious affiliations.
While the actors themselves strode the caste-less orbit, the characters in Malayalam cinema were hardly on that league. It was a given that most heroes were Nairs — Madhu must have played the Mr. Nair infinite times, while Mohanlal, under the aegis of director Renjith, went on to celebrate upper-caste privileges with utter abandon.
Indeed, for years, Muslim characters were mercilessly caricatured in Malayalam cinema — and at one point it was up to director M Krishnan Nair to give us sob (but superhit) films about the Muslim community with films such as Maniyara, Manithali and Mylanchi.
Most directors have not been free of the ‘superiority’ bias — a classic case being Priyadarshan, whose characters invariably tended to be Nairs or Kuruppus or Pillais. While Bharathan was bolder about the social milieu of his subjects, Padmarajan liked his turf, probably because that is what he knew best.
Even Sathyan Anthikadu and Sreenivasan, the hit-combo who told stories that the common man could relate to, were not above the bias — as their heroes and their problems were mostly derivations from MT’s ‘Nair decline stories.’
So it is that, with the new generation, Paravthy took to task that she would rather be known by her family name — than be tagged a Menon or Nair (I really don’t know nor wish to Google what).
Parvathy had enough reason not to be called a ‘Menon’ or ‘Nair’ because as she says — (and thank her parents for that) — she was named Parvathy Thiruvothu Kottuvatta.
While she was forthright against being caste-branded and boldly goes about it, others weren’t too lucky. Parvathy Nair, another actress, was seen battling tears when cornered in a Tamil TV show on why she chooses to use the ‘Nair’ tag — and alleged that the controversy was cooked up to hike the TRP rating.
Meanwhile, Prithviraj and his wife, Supriya Menon, were in a soup for naming their daughter with a ‘Menon’ tag — even as they flaunted their progressiveness on all platforms, to which Prithviraj is said to have responded that for him, “Menon is just a name.’
The question then is: Is the ‘Nair’ or any such surname relevant? Are the vast majority of young people who have a ‘Nair’ stuck to their names indeed flaunting their ‘caste?’ Could it be just that they, like many others, ‘simply don’t care’?
Or, in continuing to flaunt the ‘Nair’ tag are they reiterating the caste-difference?
To answer that we must once again return to the annals of history.
(To be continued)
