Mr. and Mrs. Iyer

What is it about the wild and the unpredictable that inspires a kind of wonder? Is it an illusion that movies attempt to create just because, well...it is different, curiously romantic perhaps or is life worth-while because of these strange, inexplicable moments created by a different class of men in a different set of situations? Consider the dependable husband who works nine to five and takes his wife out maybe on a Saturday to a movie, his attempt at the art of "romancing" - his character is often discarded as the mundane, the ho-hum role in a movie worth five minutes of screen time. That's understandable I guess because this poor guy's character is so common in life. Every second or third man probably does that. But then, consider the rash and undependable college chap who sports a never-shaven-before chin at all times and now you have a character worth focusing on (or at least used to be before that too became routine)!

Or consider the pensive, intelligent wild-life photographer who falls in love with a traditional Tamil Brahmin girl in Mr. & Mrs. Iyer. Now, we have a story! And what a story it is! The tangible chemistry that fills the space around them leaves me mesmerized each time I watch the movie. I watched the movie a second time today and it reminded me of Bridges of Madison County (a woman quite contended to be a wife to a husband who loves her the best he can, the only way he knows to love her and enter the "mystery-man" who she can relate to in a way she knows she never can with her husband - now, there's something that doesn't happen often in life or does it?)...what is it with wild life photographers anyway that make them so special? All the travel makes them perceptive, sensitive, intelligent in an irresistible sort of way(?). In movies at least.

The scene in the train when Rahul Bose leans towards Konkana Sen and she stutters and speaks incoherently while trying to mask her own feelings is so real...I can almost feel what she feels at that moment.

"Menakshi..."

"That's not the way my name is pronounced, you know?"

"How is it pronounced dear?", with a smile to kill.

"Meenakshi. Meen in Tamil means fish..."

"M e e n a k s h i...", there can be beauty and tenderness even in the way a person says your name. And Rahul Bose says it the way a lover would to his beloved. A wistful sigh, a whispered melody, unsaid dreams, in that one word.

"I have that lens in my bag...fish eye lens"

and we understand the turbulence, the conflicts Meenakshi experiences just by catching a glimpse of her eyes. Words cannot match what she emotes. Each time I watch that scene, I hold my breath wanting them to say something, anything at all, to hug tightly, to weep on each other's shoulders...

Or the other train sequence where he describes his next photography assignment to Meenakshi and she asks worriedly,

"Will you be alone?"

He watches her closely and asks, "Why do you want to know that?"

And she looks away unable to admit what she feels for him. A few minutes of conversation later, she asks the same question and he says,

"Alone. Unless you come with me..."

It takes a strong woman not to agree to go with him, that moment...(and somehow if she had agreed to go with him, the essence of the scene would have been lost).

Or the scene in the forest,

"The caretaker told me you had packed and left..."

And he asks calmly, "And did you believe him?"

Now, that's romance. Classic. Subtle. Powerful.

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