Comebackamma

Especially the logic of M. Karunanidhi, who is wiping the vapours of doubt from his dark glasses. Legatee of the one part of divided Dravidianism, Karunanidhi ought to realise that politics of revenge breeds martyrdom, and in Tamil Nadu, it8217;s technicolour martyrdom. Jayalalitha, the fallen chief minister of 1996, is currently Mother Vindicated. You can punish a Jayalalitha, and call her, as a headline writer did, the booty queen. You can jail her, and chronicle her corruption in a text of silk and gold. But in the politics of vulgarised Dravidianism, Jayalalitha the politician is subordinated to the idea she epitomises.

Once upon a time, this idea was one of cultural assertion. The Dravidian rebellion of E.V. Ramaswamy Naicker was a culture-specific movement which had self-honour, Tamil identity and anti-Brahminism as its themes. C.N. Annadurai institutionalised this Tamil First, Tamil Alone, Tamil Supreme struggle as DMK. A subnationalist romance. MGR and Karunanidhi turned it into a copy ofcelluloid sizzler. For MGR, politics was off-screen vaudeville, and the Tamils subordinated themselves to the cult of the knight in dark goggles.

On screen, MGR had a very special heroine, not always in vennira aadai white sari. Those who have seen her dancing with the most famous rickshaw-puller say she was voluptuous, she had big eyes, annan was quite lucky. MGR reduced the distance between the big screen and the State, and he himself had grown larger than his dark-hall image. And in that darkness blossomed the political heroine, Jayalalitha. Along with the hero, she migrated from the mise en scene of pulp frisson into the psychodrama of Dravidian politics. As MGR ruled, she danced up her way as the First Girl of Tamil politics. She was the chosen heir of the dark-glasses-and-fur-cap politics of MGR.

MGR8217;s death was as dramatic as his life. It was a prolonged trans-continental drama which threatened to be eternal. But Jaya8217;s succession was melodramatic. She, the Other Lady, was denied a place in thegun carriage of her love. It was MGR8217;s last journey, and she knew: it8217;s my inauguration, my beginning as the empress, so hold on, girl, you need this death more than his life. So she followed the death, alone in a sea of sorrow, alone in her public humiliation, but with the stoic determination that, I8217;ll live his life, stop me if you can.8217;

They stopped her for a while. But who doesn8217;t like pornography? Chief Minister Jayalalitha was part Imelda, part Eva. She wrote her own mythology, and pretended to possess a celestial mandate. I8217;m the elected diva, indulge me, you bastards and I8217;ll make you happy. They obeyed, as if their minds were pre-programmed by the super intellect. She, of course, made them happy. And her fury was quite sulphuric whenever anyone dissented. And her benevolence was indeed gigantic whenever she celebrated special occasions within her adopted family. And when she blessed the water on the day of Mahamakam, people died in ecstasy. She played out her politics in the realm of rawemotions.

The politics of kitsch. Writes the novelist: 8220;Kitsch is the aesthetic ideal of all politicians and all political parties and movements8230;Politics in the sense of political parties, elections, modern politics 8212; is unthinkable without kitsch. It is inevitable. The function of successful politician is to please. He is meant to please the largest number of people humanly possible8230;8221; Eva Peron cried for Argentina, its millions of shirtless. It was erotic as well as tragic, dying Evita indulging in mass seduction. A national orgy, and Evita immortalised herself. 8220;I8217;ll come back, and I8217;ll be millions.8221; Haunt me senorita the cry goes on. Though less successful, Imelda Marcos, even today, continues to echo Eva8217;s comeback call.

Jaya is our beloved queen of kitsch. The aesthetics of her politics is a colourful museum of silk and shoes. When kitsch is in power, it achieves a kind of autonomy that is less than real. The dictatorship of Jayalalitha was unreal, something meant to be experienced in adark hall of images. Tamil Nadu in those days was a huge hall of images and Jayalalitha soared above them like a vigilant balloon of fearsome rhythm. She monopolised the space between adulation and fear. She ruled as the empress of a Tamil puritania.

When she burst, we all thought it was the end of imagology. She crashlanded on her own hubris, we all concluded. But in Tamil Nadu politics, images dictate reality. The alternative to Jaya was another image, different only in style. Jaya, the trampled queen, lay dormant in the psyche of betrayal, of punishment. Tormentors added colour to her martyrdom. The election was a wake-up call, and she returned, in millions.

Borrow the dark glasses of Dravidian salvation to watch the Part Two of Jaya Unbound. And look beyond her, if the image allows that freedom to your eyes. Where is the classical Tamil dissent, that vintage anger against Brahminical power, against the hegemony of Hindi? Where has gone the honour? A little lotus waves its petals and whisperssomething in Sanskritised Hindi8230;perhaps a harmless mockery in the shadow of the lady.

Amma has seen larger mockeries. And she has always proved larger than the profile writer8217;s mockery.