Rajinikanth: The Star and the Swag

AS A GHAZAL SINGER interacts with the audience, he engages with himself, sitting in the solitude of his ‘mirror room’. The privacy of the room excites him. The mirrors, reach­ing up to the ceiling, reflect the myriad shades—the many contours of that face, the stylish movements of the limbs, and the comic gestures that he savours, as if he, Shivaji Rao Gaekwad, is watching another in the mirror. The many lives he has led. Under the glittering lights, imitating the other, speaking, rehearsing again and again—the stylish flick of the cigarette, the flipping of the goggles, the rakish smile—and yet, he does not know who he really is. He practices hard to make them his—even as he falters over the Tamil scripts that stick in his teeth like pebbles, even after 50 years.

His face does not permit him to be a chocolate-boy romantic hero like the fair-skinned MG Ramachandran—better known as MGR—the matinee idol and demigod to millions of fans. Nor does it allow him to express emotions like Sivaji Ganesan or Kamal Haasan. He hardly has in him that kind of acting skill. He is rough, rugged, wild—a manifestation of raw energy. That became his style—the ‘Rajinikanth style’—which no other could imitate. A style that captivated the hearts of a generation and the next. That, in turn, surprised him. It is this that he exploited to his advantage to compete with stalwarts in the field.

He wants to laugh aloud. Raucous, like the Mahabharata character Duryodhana, who he trans­formed into when he played the role in Bangalore, in the lanes of Hanumanthanagar with his friends. That was another time, another life—more than 50 years ago. He steps away from the mirror and won­ders who he is. It is a haunting question because he cannot forget the past. That of Shivaji Rao Gaekwad who came to Madras from Bangalore, almost like a beggar, in search of a better future. He tried his luck in films, slept on footpaths and benches, went hun­gry for days, borrowed clothes from friends—won­dering, worrying what the future was, if there was one at all, for an outsider, dark and unsophisticated, in an industry that spoke a different language.

He ended up becoming Super Star Rajinikanth.

Who would have believed that the Tamil audience—accustomed to the likes of morally upright heroes played by MGR and Sivaji Ganesan—would accept the possibility of a Duryodhana actually becoming a hero, a deeply loved one? Nay, they began to worship the vil­lain—charmed, mesmerised by his every gesture, every move on screen, defining a different style—Rajini style, something they had not seen before.

They worshipped his cut-outs, bathed them with milk and beer, and spent their hard-earned money as if he were their god. It made him nervous. They stand in the lanes of Poes Garden where his house is and cry in unison, a beseeching cry that rises like a crescendo— “Thalaivar”—like one cries before the sanctum sanctorum of the gods. Ironic that this should hap­pen in a state that saw the Self-Respect Movement that propagated atheism and protested ritualistic worship. At the Satyam Studios building, where the new film is going to be released, an imposing 80-foot cut-out of their icon—designed to match a still photograph from the film— has been erected. A couple of fans climb the scaffold, reach the top, and carefully lift the pots of milk to bathe their god created in cardboard.

When Periyar, the leader of the Self- Respect Movement, thundered, “There is no god,” he would not have imagined that film heroes—who he called koothth­adigal with contempt—would one day replace the religious icons.

Sadanand Menon, art and film critic, explains Rajinikanth’s incredible appeal. “He is the original subaltern hero. He resonates with people from the margin­alised communities. He has constantly played the outsider belonging to the deprived class.” He adds, “And he was con­vincing, unlike MGR or Sivaji Ganesan when they donned such roles. Tamil so­ciety learnt to be kosher with being bad. It was not something that someone was going to make them feel guilty about.”

Superstar Rajinikanth is not worried about what the critics say about his acting skills or the explanations for his stupendous mass appeal. He defies all conventional analyses—no one has reigned supreme for as long as he has in the world of Indian cinema. With over 170 films under his belt (and counting), many of them blockbusters, he still plays the hero at his age—he will be 75 this December. The devotion of his legions of fans has not waned during the 50-odd years of his stardom, though there is Vijay, much younger, making headlines now. Fans are all agog about the next film to be released on August 14, titled ‘Coolie’—a serendipitous reminder of the humble beginnings of their hero who did not hide his own coolie days.

Rajini was lucky in a sense. His arrival coincided with a change in the Tamil film industry in terms of production, content, and storytelling. Mainstream commer­cial Tamil cinema was dominated by MGR (who also belonged to the political party Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam— DMK, an offshoot of the Dravidian Move­ment) and Sivaji Ganesan, though there were a few others like Gemini Ganesan and Jaishankar. Political agendas made it a compulsion to show MGR as a do-gooder, protector of damsels in distress, a non-smoker, and a non-drinker. Times were changing. People wanted some­thing different.

It was during the early 1970s that a change in the wind was perceived. It was then that K Balachander was able to capture the shifting mood of the audience and write plays accordingly. His characters were bold, irreverent, and asked pertinent questions.

Into this scene entered Rajinikanth. His entry marked a clear break from the conventional fair-skinned hero who was a paragon of virtue. He was dark. He smoked. He drank. He had fun with women. He could also be sadistic—and get away with it. His irreverence, his villainous smile, his dishevelled hair— seemed like the style statement of a new generation of the marginalised. He was a hero of the subaltern.

Call it destiny, call it chance— his popularity started escalating from the moment he entered the silver screen, when, looking ragged, he opened the gates of a house and spoke just a couple of sentences in Apoorva Raagangal (1975), the first break he got from K Balachan­der, who found a ‘spark’ in the eyes of the young man he saw in passing at the Madras Film Institute. Balachander even gave him a name—Rajinikanth. A star was born at that very moment.

It was different from MGR’s popular­ity. MGR’s image was built carefully and systematically with the intention of creating a viable political leader. Rajini, of course, had no such intentions. His main interest was to act in as many films as he could, make use of the opportunity that came by, and make money. And perhaps he should have stopped with that. His passion was acting, cinema. The roles he played and the dialogues he mouthed— they were not his creations. If he appeared convincing, it was due to his acting skill, nothing more. But his fans, believing the words were his, had other thoughts. Duryodhana became their redeemer.

Beyond the lanes of Poes Garden, they had been waiting for long—for him to make an announcement they believed would put an end to their miseries. They called him ‘Thalaivar’, leader. He had only to say yes, and they would make sure he was placed in the Chief Minister’s chair. They didn’t realise the audacity it takes to make that announcement in a state that saw the revolutionary atheist Dravidian Self-Respect Movement that was accompanied by chants of, “Thamizh engal moochu (Tamil is our breath).” How could he, a Marathi-speaking Kannadiga from Karnataka, dare to tread on such ground? How could they imagine he would be impudent enough to rule the state that gave him shelter when he had come with nothing? Alas, didn’t he also delude himself with such a possibility for a while?

With the death of the charismatic J Jayalalithaa, a former actor, and M Karunanidhi, who was a scriptwriter for films—leaders of the AIADMK and DMK respectively—fans believed there was a political vacuum that only their Thalaivar could fill.

How could he fit into the scene? He had been dabbling in politics, by making pronouncements on certain issues, including Jayalalithaa’s policies, the Cauvery water-sharing problem between Tamil Nadu and Karnataka, violent attacks in the state, and so on. But they appeared like knee-jerk reac­tions of an impatient, angry man.

The pressure was so much that dur­ing a self-absorbed moment in 2017, he shocked the audience by saying, “Naan arasiyalukku varuvadhu urudhi (My com­ing into politics is certain)”. He promised to form his own party and contest all 234 seats in the 2021 Assembly elections. His fan clubs went into overdrive to turn themselves into the foundation of their Thalaivar’s political party, attract­ing more members and working on the ground through the state.

For three years, every utterance of Rajinikanth’s was debated. Political op­ponents questioned his experience and pointed out that—even after 40 years— he was an outsider who did not under­stand the undercurrents of Tamil Nadu politics. His detractors criticised the lack of an ideology behind his promise of aan­meega arasiyal —‘spiritual politics’. What was his ideology? He could not explain. “Thalai suththudhu (My head is spinning),” he said when pestered by reporters.

For the first time, he had to speak his own script. He was puzzled when report­ers chased him with questions he could not answer. Political analysts, observing that Rajini was close to the BJP, anticipat­ed he might enter an alliance with them, allowing the right-wing party a foothold in the state.

Ultimately, however, the 70-year-old superstar withdrew from the political arena, citing health concerns. He was wise to realise politics was not his game. His mentor Balachander had told him years ago, “You are not cut out for it.”

The fans were hugely disappointed, but understanding. They are happy that he was back in the studios, and could still enthral them with the same panache. He is aware of his age, but his fans want him to don the same garb of a hero in action films. He will give them what they want.

After the mega film Enthiran (2010), where he acted as a robot—a film he sensed his fans did not like, though it was a blockbuster—he was back again with a wig and clever makeup that hides his wrinkles. He is still able to dance and laugh the rakish laugh, and clap his hands, even if he plays the patriarch. His films still fill the coffers. Kalanithi Maran of Sun Pictures does not think it is risky to spend crores with Rajini as the hero. After ‘Coolie’ will come ‘Jailer 2’ (2026).

Life has led him through unexpected turns and twists. For the moment, there are still the films—and his adoring fans, who have grown with him.

“I will continue doing films for as long as people ask for and want to see Rajini­kanth,” he said, adding, “Till I have the energy, I will do films.”

With his fans’ continuing support and excitement for the next Rajini-starrer, he remains a giant in the field of entertain­ment. But it is amazing that, for those three years, the actor who had come to Madras as a young man with nothing but the clothes on his back—nervous and hungry—had become a force to reckon with in Tamil Nadu politics.

He is in the top echelons of power. He attended the wedding of Anant Ambani. The Prime Minister enquires about his health.

To his friends in Bengaluru, the Shivaji Rao they know has not changed. He is in constant touch, speaking in Kannada. He sits on the ground with them in his tiny flat in Bengaluru when he visits, and drinks country liquor—saa­rayee—with a squeeze of lemon, mur­muring a prayer to the goddess, as his friends drink the whiskey he has ordered for them. He lifts the glass, closes his eyes, and murmurs, “Mari, Mahamayee.”

Bliss.

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