Nambiarswami: The Good, the Bad and the Holy

By M.N. Dipak Nambiar

Few actors in Tamil cinema have been as loved as M.N. Nambiar. Admired for his intense acting prowess, particularly his portrayals of villains, he was also revered as a guruswami (spiritual leader). Nambiarswami provides an in-depth look into his public persona and personal life, which he fastidiously kept separate from one another. From growing up in Ooty and joining the gritty world of travelling drama troupes to achieving stellar success in the Tamil film industry, this book takes the reader on an engaging journey narrated by the man himself, as told to his grandson Dipak Nambiar.The foreword by J. Jayalalithaa and stirring anecdotes from his family and industry friends make this book a fascinating portrait of the great actor who was equally adept in his roles as a hero and a villain, and widely respected as a spiritual man.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harper India
• Release date: Mar 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9789353028442

M.N. Dipak Nambiar

Dipak Nambiar grew up in Madras, raised by two strong women - his mother and grandmother. After studying for an MBA in Boston, he lived in the US for a while before returning to India. A single father, he spoils his children, Dia and Manas, while taking time out to read, ride a 1958 Bullet and listen to the Beatles. Presently, he is writing his memoirs.

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The Book

The village of Cheruvaishi is located a half hour’s brisk walk from Kannur in the northern part of Kerala. The heart of the Malabar, it is a place that even the city slickers of Kannur would deem far away. The land is picture perfect; it is green throughout the year, and the views are tremendous.

Herds of cattle meander around a small town centre and people tend to their fields, carrying on with their slow-paced lives. The city of Kannur can be seen from certain vantage points like hillocks that dot the landscape. There were a bunch of houses divided in the centre by a railway track, where one could hear the whistle of the trains that came from as far away as Madras (Tamil Nadu and the other states, as we know them now, had not been formed back in 1919). Little did I know that one day my destiny would take me to a life in Madras on similar metaphorical tracks.

Biologically speaking, I came late to the party. When I was born, on 7 March 1919, my parents Kelu and Kalyani were already over forty years old; my eldest sister was twenty-four, another sister was sixteen and my brother was ten. This built-in generation gap meant that, for most purposes, my sisters were almost parental figures while my real parents were far removed from identifying with any concerns or issues I might have had. While I cannot talk with certainty about my father’s feelings towards me, the others loved me unreservedly. As the youngest of the family, they were always pampering and looking out for me.

I spent my first nine years in our old tharavāttu (ancestral house), which seemed massive and mysterious to me then and still holds deep memories for me now. It was close to a creek, bordered by coconut trees, where the rushing waters were rejuvenated every year with the September rainwater. I thrived in the rain. Wearing nothing more than a pair of worn khaki chaddis (shorts), I would jump in and out of every puddle I could find. Coloured little fish would dart in and out between my feet. I yearned for thunder and lightning, as storms in Malabar were usually lacking in crash and flash; they were too quiet for my taste. I liked the wind that used to sweep in from the Arabian Sea. A harbinger of the impending monsoon, it lent a cool sting to the rain.

People considered me a jolly, hyperactive prankster. I was talkative, curious and, above all, gullible and trusting. My father, Kelu, was an authoritarian and as fast with his tongue as he was with his cane. I learnt very early in life to stay clear of him and not to ever (naïvely) expect love. As a foreman in a construction company, he worked long hours to put food on the table. His salary of three rupees a month was just enough to ensure that none of us went to bed hungry. On the many nights that he came home drunk, all the kids would make sure they were in bed before he got in. Most nights we would hear our parents’ ‘discussions’ about what we had been up to and pray that Dad was inebriated enough to not bother wasting energy in thrashing us.

My mother was constantly juggling many things at once, but she was always there for us. I was particularly fond of her. Despite the demons she had to face, with an alcoholic husband and a household chronically short on food, she always made each one of us feel like we were the most important people in her life.

Since my sisters were already young women by the time I was born, they always doted on me as the baby of the family. My brother, however, was a real character but more on him later.

One of my earliest memories of life in Kerala, back in the 1920s, involves a giant snake. Word had spread that someone had seen a thirty-foot long monster in our backyard; by dusk, the entire village had gathered to find this snake and, sure enough, hiding under a big rock near our backyard was a huge python. It was shot dead by Moplahs, who at that time were the only people hunting with rifles. King cobras were plentiful in the forests nearby, and I’d heard many tales of how Moplahs would lay down their weapons and pray if they happened to confront any of these fearsome reptiles. Legend had it that the snakes would then leave these men alone, since the Moplahs had paid obeisance to them.

My mother also told me of a cobra that slithered to our house every evening, just as the shadows fell, and raised its hood at the doorway in anticipation of food. My grandmother would admonish the snake, as she would her own child, telling it to go next door where my rich grand-uncle lived. That charlatan had cheated my grandmother blind by tricking her into signing away a home where, word has it, the kitchen alone was large enough to qualify as an independent house.

Treachery forced my side of the family into penury; though, amazingly, my mother would later reminisce more wistfully about the snake than the wealth we lost. It seems the snake would seemingly comprehend what grandma had said and chagrined, slink away to my grand-uncle’s house!

While not a great raconteur of tales or a believer of father-son bonding via bedtime stories, my father was fond of repeating one legend. This lore about the lead elephant of Guruvayoor, while based on fact, was embellished on every successive telling. Temple tradition called for one anointed elephant to be entrusted with the task of carrying the temple deity and leading the other elephants during annual festival processions. This generally lasted through the best years of the tusker’s life, after which the mantle was passed on to a younger male elephant. The recently retired elephant would then move on to a pastoral life, the highlight of which was the indulgence and love of the townspeople.

Padmanabhan was one such king elephant, whose valour is still spoken of with nostalgia in the tales passed on through generations. Many elephants had carried the crown with majesty and splendour but none were as renowned as Padmanabhan. This is the story that made him a legend:

After many years of service (which lengthened or shrunk depending on my father’s penchant for drinks that day), Padmanabhan retired to a farm on the outskirts of the town. He would lovingly indulge the kids, some of whom were helped onto his mighty back by the mahout for a post-lunch amble around the town. The responsibility of being the temple’s dominant elephant had passed on to Velayudhan a year earlier. Having just come into his prime, he carried the recently inherited position with all the regality expected of a king. But Velayudhan could be ornery even in the best of times; as fate would have it, his mahout left Guruvayoor for a family emergency just as Velayudhan was coming into musth.

Musth is a condition (characterized by flowing teardrops) where male elephants experience a spike in their testosterone levels, causing them to behave with pure, unbridled aggression. Most elephants are chained during this time to keep them from hurting humans, other elephants or themselves. Even to this day, reading about a lone elephant running amok and killing people is not uncommon. Woe betides any human crossing paths with an unchained elephant in musth.

Unluckily for the good people of Guruvayoor, by the time the first teardrops were discovered flowing down Velayudhan’s face, it was already too late; an epic tragedy unfolded in slow motion. Velayudhan started acting erratically and goring his fellow elephants, whose trumpeted cries of pain soon alerted the temple authorities of an imminent catastrophe. The replacement mahout valiantly tried to chain his ward but, while trying to corral him, made the fatal mistake of prodding Velayudhan with his ankush. Through this ill-advised move, the mahout signed his own death warrant. With one swipe of his mighty trunk, Velayudhan deposited the mahout almost fifty feet away from where he had recently stood. Meanwhile, the diversion provided by the airborne mahout had given the other elephants enough time to stampede far, far away from the enraged pachyderm.

Having lost interest in cowing the already terrified elephants, Velayudhan turned his streaming eye towards the mahout. It’s hard to fathom what went on inside the doomed man’s head when he saw the juggernaut bearing down on him but, with whatever strength left in his broken body, the mahout tried to crawl away. Velayudhan paused momentarily over the mahout, who by now had folded his hands and was wailing for mercy. With a slow and deliberate squish of his mighty foot, Velayudhan ended the mahout’s life right there.

In the meantime, everyone in Guruvayoor had gotten on their proverbial horses to get as far away as possible from the rampaging Velayudhan. The head priest, to his eternal credit, gave the order for the temple bells to peal, which got the attention of the one living thing that could save the town: Padmanabhan.

Within moments, the old king elephant, with his mahout astride him, was face-to-face with the mammoth that had inherited the throne from him. Padmanabhan’s mahout wisely dismounted, but remained close at hand to monitor the fight and guide his ward. The elephants warily sized each other up, much like gladiators; the calm Padmanabhan facing the stronger and out-of-control Velayudhan. For five full minutes they circled an invisible ring, even as Velayudhan, raring to go, clawed at the ground, creating an amber dust storm that reddened the sun. Then, on cue, a faraway temple bell rang and the colossal animals lumbered towards one another – an irresistible force meeting an immovable object. To use an analogy from my favourite sport, it was like a twenty-year-old Mike Tyson taking on a fifty-year-old Muhammad Ali. Two legendary champions: one in his prime and one who was way past it.

Padmanabhan avoided the initial barrage through deftness borne of skill and a keen sense of self-preservation. However, as time wore on, it became apparent that the collateral damage was going to be tremendous. Homes and shops in the vicinity were smashed to smithereens as the adversaries careened and bounced off each other.

Having sensed the carnage, Padmanabhan’s mahout communicated via a series of whistles (a language which only a long relationship of over sixty years could foster) and guided the battle to an open field nearby, far away from any human settlement. Some brave townspeople gathered to watch as the battle raged on for thirty-six straight hours. The elephant is an intelligent beast who knows and understands when it is deemed the alpha male, a monarch whose sole purpose is to lead his brothers and sisters. Legend has it that because of the elephants’ memory, these animals are aware of hierarchy; of who the old and the new king are. There would certainly be no love lost between Velayudhan and Padmanabhan – only one would make it out alive.

The townspeople stayed through the night, with prayers on their mouths and tears in their eyes as they saw their beloved Padmanabhan take a pummelling. Bleeding and battered, he was using up most of his energy reserves in just staying away from Velayudhan’s slashing tusks. Finally, Padmanabhan staggered and slumped to his knees; head bent low, eyes seemingly closed in anticipation of death. This was the moment that the townspeople had dreaded – the moment that signalled the impending death of their saviour, the beloved Padmanabhan. Bellowing with triumphant rage, Velayudhan reared up on his hind legs to finish off the beloved protector of Guruvayoor. At the exact time that Velayudhan’s body was at its apogee, the mahout screamed something that only his ward could understand. With an alacrity that belied his age and the seriousness of his wounds, Padmanabhan arose and locked his tusks under Velayudhan’s neck.

The bemused Velayudhan, in that split second, realized that the script had gone awry. He tried to wriggle away from Padmanabhan’s grip but, with only his hind legs supporting his massive frame, found that it was to no avail. Within seconds, a team of able-bodied men led by Padmanabhan’s mahout surrounded the temporarily incapacitated Velayudhan and chained him to a tree. In boxing terms, this was akin to a boxer, having been pummelled against the ropes, landing one lucky haymaker to finish the fight.

While Velayudhan was banished from the temple forever, Padmanabhan’s legend grew and so did the affection and love of the townspeople. It was a story I never tired of hearing.

As a child, I was always up to some mischief and needed my big sister’s protection to bail me out of trouble. These misadventures, on discovery, were always met with one certain outcome: a renewed acquaintance with my father’s cane.

My father left for Ooty the next day after a particularly sound thrashing. Mother asked me if I had any idea when he might be back and I told her that he was never going to return. You can imagine my mortification when I heard two days later that he had indeed died on the way back. I was eight years old then, but did not feel the least bit of remorse for what I had said, nor any emotions as my father’s body lay in state amidst the cacophony of the final rites. The seeds of a career in acting might have been sown that day as I furtively applied water on my face to appear like I had been crying the whole day.

While most of our friends and family came to pay their respects, I watched with almost surreal detachment as they took my father’s body away for the last time.

A lot of things changed in my family that day. We were not wealthy to begin, though we lived in a massive ancestral house.