In a 1977 black-and-white film set in Madras, a rich widow sets out to work as the ayah of her grandson – a bit like Avvai Shanmugi, except there is no big disguise involved. The middle-aged woman trades her diamonds and silks for a maid’s garb and sets out to atone for the wrongs of her devious son. He has just moved back into the family bungalow after a brief marriage in Bombay about which he has kept her in the dark. Perhaps, this is just another addition to a list of reprehensible things he has done – perhaps, he is a serial offender of some sort. Whatever the case, his mother does not think highly of him.
One evening, this middle-aged woman arrives at the flat of her son’s ex-wife, who has relocated to Madras. The single mother, who just picked up some groceries and her toddler from the creche on her way back from work, is tired. The widow, first hesitant, then sassy, talks herself into an ayah’s job. Other than taking care of the infant, she will do all the work around the house for a monthly wage of Rs.25. Then she locks a term into their verbal contract: a daily mugful of coffee, same as the one her employer drinks. (If you grew up in Madras, you know that a maid is usually given watered-down coffee; the first decoction filter coffee is strictly for the boss.)
A well-to-do Tamil woman will do plenty to atone for her asshole of a son – sweep, swab and wipe a kid’s butt clean – but she cannot make herself drink bad coffee every day. Director K. Balachander’s genius was in using such tiny details to create true-to-life characters in his films. Much has been written about what makes Avargal a classic – the compelling characters, the actors, and even the songs. To me, the stereotype-busting mother-in-law played by actor Leelavathi is the most memorable character of them all.
Leelavathi was also the name of her character in the film. In the normal course of things, she would have been athai to Anu the divorcee (played by Sujatha). Instead, Anu asks the older woman for her name, and jokes that the name Leelavathi sounds like that of a cinemakaari. The name may be redolent of movies, the ayah says, because she is from a slum near Krishnaveni Theatre, which is a real cinema hall in T. Nagar.
Soon, we begin to see Anu’s life through the eyes of the self-appointed ayah. Educated women were just beginning to enter the workforce – they were a new breed in urban society, which was largely conservative at that point. So, it is doubly surprising that when Leelavathi finds that Anu is interested in her new neighbor, a young flautist, she does not judge her. She is all for Anu moving on. When she realizes that the flautist is Anu’s former boyfriend, she does her best to help them reunite.
It is Anu who mystifyingly clings to her old taali. To her, the wedding chain is not an accessory to tell a conservative society that she was once married to her child’s father. She says if she discards the taali, her ex may suffer, and she doesn’t want that to happen. It may make little sense now, but divorce too was a new phenomenon in the 1970s. Discarding a taali when the man who tied it is still alive – as opposed to taking it off for a dead husband – may have been too radical for some women, even educated ones with office jobs.
Not to Leelavathi, whose thinking on this is clear: if you accepted the divorce provided by the court of law, you should discard the taali prescribed by tradition, she tells Anu. She tries to make Anu see sense. “I don’t like scoundrels like my son, nor do I like stupid people like you,” says Leelavathi, to goad her into action. Understandably, she is impatient with the woman who has agency over her life but acts as if she doesn’t. When Anu comes to her senses and removes her taali, it is much too late. After a brief exhilarating spell of togetherness with the old boyfriend, Anu finds herself alone yet again. She has been outmaneuvered by her wily ex-husband. Still, she remains strong – she will not give the man the satisfaction of seeing her cry.
Even the minor female characters in this film are so well written. There is Anu’s bubbly work bestie Rajathi (played by Kumari Padmini). Rajathi has inane fights with her husband but also makes up with him loudly and publicly –everyone in Mount Road, that downtown stretch in Madras, knows of this silly amorous couple, we are told. There is the rich young woman Gayathri (played by Kutti Padmini) who can dream of a life without marriage because she is wealthy, and equally importantly she has enough interests – cricket, books, and music – to keep her engaged. She is not afraid of being lonely. Even in the same southern city, different women, of course, had different stories in the same time period.
Early in the film, Leelavathi receives a letter from her son in Bombay. He has written to ask his mother to find him a bride and in the same envelope, there is a note in Hindi. When Leelavathi meets with the family of a prospective bride, she hears the young lady say “bus, bus…,” realizes she is fluent in Hindi and hands her the note. Turns out, it is from the son’s household help in Bombay. He has written to say that his employer has recently divorced a woman, Anu, who has left for Madras with their child. The annulled marriage is not a deal-breaker for them, the visitors hasten to say, but Leelavathi, deeply hurt by her son’s deception, will not hear of it. In her newly acquired Hindi, she assertively says, “bus, bus” and brings that conversation to a quiet close.
Throughout, Leelavathi comes across as someone who has a clear sense of right and wrong without descending into sanctimoniousness. When Anu decides to start life afresh in another city, it is Leelavathi who goes along with her. She has decided to turn her back on her son, her riches, and her comfortable home. She asks to go along as the child’s ayah and Anu’s companion. A stoic Anu, who by then is aware of Leelavathi’s real identity, breaks down and cries. The two women hug. With that, the movie ends, but these women can linger in your memory for a long time.