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Waiting for Kamal
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FIRST PERSON How Geetika Sudipchased the elusive Ulaga Nayagan for an entire day and ended up having dinner with him
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December 7, 12 noon: There were claims that Kamal Haasan would inaugurate the International Film Festival of Kerala but I didn’t pay them any heed. I had been intensely excited in 2005 (he was rumoured to be jury) and wildly delighted in 2004 (he was rumoured to be guest). Both times I was left with nothing but cups of woe. This time round, I was going to steer clear of heartbreak: to believe, I’d need to see.
3.00 p.m.: “Kamalahaasan has arrived at Thiruvananthapuram airport!” “He has checked in at a Kovalam hotel!” A ray of hope tried to break through the clouds of my forced cynicism. I stood firm. It could still be Woe Cup 2007.
6.00 p.m.: Curtains were finally drawn on the IFFK 2007 to reveal Men-in-Black Mohanlal and Kamal Haasan rubbing shoulders at Nishagandhi. My moment of truth had arrived, there was no denying it. There he was, in flesh and blood! As I savoured the moment, my phone blinked: Madame S, my boss. “Kamal’s going to be in town all of tomorrow. Can you do his interview?”
Like, would you like to inherit the Kohinoor?
December 8, 8.30 a.m.: I wanted to get on the job early in the morning, but thankfully decorum prevailed. “Kamal sir is not taking calls but I’ll pass on your message, ma’am,” informed a polite hotel-voice at the other end of the line.
9.30 a.m.: “Kamal sir is not in his room ma’am.”
10.30 a.m.: “Not sure ma’am.”
Enough was enough. I thumbed down the first vehicle in sight and hot-wheeled it to Kovalam. You might do a lot of things, but you can’t give up on Kamal without a fight. Ennal mudiyum thambi.
11.30 a.m.: The Padmashri awardee was being escorted from one television interview to another. I wrote out a message with my name and number (taking care not to sound too stiff or too syrupy) and had it despatched to him.
1.00 p.m.: Long minutes of lolling in the lobby but no Kamal. The messenger-steward returned: “Sir says he won’t do an interview unless you have a prior appointment.”
Panic attacks. Urgent summons to Madame S, who routed a request via Chennai. I returned to lolling with a thumping heart. Inquisitive glances began to come my way. Meanwhile, not even a glimpse of the face that launched a thousand emotions.
2.00 p.m.: I found solace in ‘Great Australian Sports Writing’, wedged somewhere in the lobby book-collection. Taking pity on this lonely waif, a waiter (God bless his soul) brought me a cup of juice. I vaguely considered a fast-until-Kamal-obliges.
3.00 p.m.: I was on page 65 (obituary of Aussie batsman David Hookes) when Madame S called, perplexed. “I don’t think it’s going to happen,” she exclaimed. “Kamal seems to be too busy. He’s normally so chivalrous! I can’t understand what the problem is.”
I sank into the swamplands of despair. One last hope led to one last note:
“Ten minutes of your time
That’s all I truly ask for
Being asked to wait is no crime
But I need to leave at four!”
The Big K is unmoved.
4.00 p.m.: I prepared to leave the hotel lobby, which rather began to feel like home. The sympathetic reception staff requested my name and number, just in case. I scribbled something wretchedly and made a dash for it...
…When realisation dawned, accompanied by the sound of crashing cymbals.
Rushing back to the reception, I snatched up the paper with my details. Next to my name, was my husband’s mobile number. And that’s exactly what I had written out for Mr. Kamal Haasan.
4.30 p.m.: My puzzled husband informed me that yes, around noon he had received a call from a ‘private number’. “He said he was from Kamal’s office. I asked him which Kamal this was? And he hung up.”
My heart went into deep freeze. “That was THE Kamal,” I groaned. “Kamal Haasan.” “What?!” Madame S was torn between amusement and dismay at my gaffe. “How could you?” How could I?
6.00 p.m.: Back home, my sorrows were smothered by buttermilk. It was over, my dream interview – smashed to smithereens.
Just then, my phone lit up with a call from the unflappable Madame S. “I managed to speak to him. I’ve explained to Kamal himself that it was a mistake by a newly-married reporter, not a practical joke. He just laughed,” she soothed. “Why don’t you give it a last shot?”
7.00 p.m.: Familiar road, familiar hotel, familiar lobby. “Mr. Kamal Haasan?” I enquired weakly. I was surviving dangerously on the dregs of hope. He was in the coffee shop and wouldn’t mind meeting me. My heart was in my mouth.
It took me a while to spot the dapper, handsome man among the tables. Then he stood up – Nayakan’s Shaktivelu, Pathinaaru Vayathinile’s Chappani, Indian’s Chandra Bose, Michael Madana Kamarajan’s Michael, Madan, Kameshwaran and Rajan.
I walked up to him and apologised for the horrors of the day. With that enigmatic smile, Kamal Haasan shook my hand and offered me a seat.
“Would you like to join me for dinner?”
I had a black out.
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