Reel Life: Commuting between languages

In an ill-advised notice issued on June 5 by the Nursing Superintendent at New Delhi's Govind Ballabh Pant Institute of Post Graduate Medical Education and Research (GIPMER) asked nurses not to converse in Malayalam and use only English or Hindi in the premises. It also warned that “serious action” would be taken on non-compliance.

The order had to be withdrawn in the face of a rightful outrage on social media and furore in the medical community on the threat to their linguistic freedom. “Malayalam is as Indian as any other Indian language. Stop language discrimination,” tweeted Congress leader Rahul Gandhi. The revocation came with the statement that the order was issued without any instructions or knowledge of the hospital administration or Delhi government.

As luck would have it, it was the day I happened to be watching a new Malayalam film on Prime Video—Sanu John Varghese’s Aarkkariyam (Who Knows). It’s a languid and likeable tale of crime and misdemeanour, secrets and lies hidden deep in the folds of a loving family. But what also caught my attention was a seemingly trifling and inconsequential aspect: the sprinkling of Hindi in its dialogue and the charming use of two lovely, old Hindi film songs.

Shirley (Parvathy Thiruvothu) and Roy (Sharafudheen) live in a Mumbai apartment, from where they shift to the sprawling estate of Shirley’s father Ittyavira (Biju Menon) in Pala, Kottayam, as the first wave of COVID rages on. In tune with the cosmopolitan reality, the couple can be seen speaking in a mix of languages—Malayalam, English and also Hindi with their Mumbai friends. All without a hitch.

In this simple detail lies a larger truth. That our ways of living and cultural practices, our lingos, festivities, food are all eventually porous. When we live in close proximity to each other and if we are receptive and broad-minded enough, then we tend to imbibe as much from them as we influence those around us. It is an organic, spontaneous and continuous process; a choice we exercise, as individuals and as a community, be it conscious or unintended.

And it is in this light that such impositions of the government or institutions feel uncalled-for, undemocratic, futile and absurd. More than that they are inimical and discriminatory, a threat to the essential cohesiveness underlying the diversity in our social fabric. It is when you coerce and constrain people and make things obligatory that you build walls of grudges and resistance.

The instinctive assimilation and absorption get amplified further in Aarkkariyam in a melodious manner. Ittyavira’s favourite song is a classic by music director Ravi from the Hindi film, Dilli Ka Thug (1958)—“Ye raatein, Ye mausam, Nadi ka kinara…”. We hear him hum it at two crucial junctures in the film.

The younger generation is also as tuned in to the old numbers. At a delightful moment in the film, during their journey from Mumbai to Pala, Roy sings the Hindi version of the popular Salil Chowdhury composition—“Chhota sa ghar hoga, badalon ki chhaon mein” (Naukri, 1954)—while its Malayalam version— “Onnanam Kunnimel” (Air Hostess, 1980)—plays on the radio. While the Hindi version was sung by Kishore Kumar and Usha Mangeshkar, the one from the Prem-Nazir starrer has Yesudas and Vani Jayaram for the vocals.

The musical references are also interesting in view of the place that Chowdhury and Ravi created for themselves in Malayalam cinema. Ravi gave music in more than a dozen Malayalam films in his second coming in the 80s as Bombay Ravi. Language could never be a barrier for Chowdhury who composed songs for Bengali, Hindi and Malayalam films. In fact, his cross-utilization of tunes across languages could be well worth a study.

He started off in Malayalam cinema with Ramu Kariat’s iconic film Chemmeen (1965). The chorus from one of the songs here—“Puthen Vallakare”—finds an echo in his own creation “Baag mein kali khili” from the Hindi film Chand Aur Suraj that also released in the same year.

Lata Mangeshkar’s melancholic yet affirming rendition of Chowdhury’s “Raaton ke saaye ghane” in Annadata (1972) is sung mellifluously by Yesudas as “Nee Varu Kaavyadevathe” in the 1973 Malayalam film, Swapnam. Incidentally, the song’s Bengali version “Gahan Raati Ghanay” was sung by Sandhya Mukherjee. What’s in language when there is a sublime melody behind it? Play on.