Irrfan: Irradiant, Irreplaceable, Irresistible!

In the first episode of Season 3 of the HBO TV series In Treatment, Sunil Sanyal – a 52-year old widower from Kolkata visits psychotherapist Paul Weston in New York for the first of his 6 sessions. Sunil, played by Irrfan in one of his surprisingly lesser-known roles, is accompanied by his son Arun and his daughter-in-law Julia.

For almost half of that 30-minute episode, Irrfan’s character doesn’t speak. Not a word! He doesn’t even care to respond to Weston’s questions which are instead answered by an animated Julia, seemingly on Sunil’s behalf. And yet, there is not a chance in the world that the viewer will miss the palpable discomfort in the room.

Though not speaking from his mouth, Irrfan’s body language speaks a million words in those first few minutes. That dismissive smirk he has on his face while casually looking around the room, that tells you how he is amused and annoyed in equal parts for being forced to consult a shrink. Psychotherapy, he later confesses to Weston, is stigmatized in the culture he comes from. Those exasperated glances he throws at his daughter-in-law every time she calls her husband Aaron instead of Arun. Or those fleeting looks of loneliness and melancholy that cross his face at every mention of his recently deceased wife.

He is terrific as an ageing Indian father struggling to come to terms with his ostensibly insensitive American daughter-in-law and his son’s Americanization while still nursing the grief of his wife’s death. It is a riveting portrayal of a grieving Indian emigrant grappling to retain his dignity in an alien culture.

Something that, quite frankly, we had come to expect from Irrfan. It was almost a given. In Treatment is just one example, from his rather large body of film and television work, of a performance that is deep, nuanced, easy on the eye and yet replete with moments of sheer magic. Moments, that with a lesser actor would never evoke the same kaleidoscope of emotions and feelings in the viewer.

For example, the moment when Paan Singh Tomar gets shot in the back by the police, a few metres short of a canal. The sheer amalgam of emotions on his face is a thing of wonder. There is a look of horror and shock at being shot, a look of searing pain, one of resignation to his fate as well a look of optimism as if by some magical power he’d still cross the canal, beyond which he felt lay his freedom.

Or the one in which Saajan Fernandes’s lunch is delivered the day after he realizes that there has been a mix-up. Irrfan’s reaction – he just can’t wait to open the dabba to find out the dish of the day as well as Ila’s response to his letter but is also extremely wary of what his colleagues might think about opening the dabba before lunch hours – is a masterclass in flawless and layered acting. A performance of such exquisite gentleness and subtlety that I am sure it will be threadbare analyzed by aspiring actors in coming years.

And the stunning thing about the man was that he’d never look out of place. Ever! Not while sharing screen space with Arjun Kapoor, nor with Tom Hanks! Neither in a shabbily made film like Thank You, nor in an intense, haunting and operatic tragedy like Maqbool. He had this incredible gift of being able to enhance a film, however shoddy or run-of-the-mill, by just being in it!

I first saw Irrfan in those now-famous Hutch chhota recharge ads in the early 2000s. Even in those 30 second commercials you could see that there was something inherently different about this man. The conviction with which he delivered his punchlines – “kabootar mehnga pad jaayega!” or “likh lo, note kar lo” – it almost made you want to believe that he hadn’t been hired to promote the product, but was instead an employee proudly flaunting his own creation.

Over the years we have seen many actors who are intense on screen. There have been some who are naturally funny, without needing to resort to slapstick. Of course, there have been countless who are stylish and charming on screen. And then there was Irrfan! He’d speak just like we do, he’d react exactly like someone we know does. He was disarmingly original on screen! Which is why he deserved every bit of the success that he achieved, both in India and abroad, and more!

However, if there is one film that stands out for me, from his sizeable repertoire of some truly amazing work, it has to be The Namesake. Maybe because it is one of those rare films that is better than the book. But more significantly because I, and I’d like to believe a lot of Bengalis like me, could feel an instant umbilical connect with it.

Just like playing a Punjabi or a Tamilian can be a harrowing experience for someone unfamiliar with those cultures, playing a Bong couldn’t have been easy for someone who was raised in Rajasthan. Being a Bong on screen is not just about uttering “uribaba” or “bhalo” or the irritatingly cliched “aami tomake bhalobashi” and doing everything else just like anybody else would do! Just like an odd “Oye Balle!” or an “Aiyyo Rama” doesn’t make you a good Punjabi or Tamilian on screen! Playing a person from a certain culture requires a deep understanding of the aesthetics of that culture. Besides getting the accent right of course!

Enough actors have tried and failed to do just that while playing a Bong on screen. From SRK in Devdas to the more recent Akshay Kumar in Gold, not to forget Mr. Bachchan in Piku! Unpopular opinion maybe, but I strongly feel Big B’s portrayal of Bhaskor Banerjee in Piku was highly unsatisfactory. He got neither the accent nor the eccentricities of a quintessential Bengali Buro right. And that obnoxiously unrealistic wig didn’t help either.

To say that Irrfan nailed the Bengali body language in The Namesake would be an understatement.

Much has been written about how he would observe Jhumpa Lahiri’s father and their caterer on set, who were both Bengalis, to try and learn Bong idiosyncrasies. To observe is one thing, but to imbibe those mannerisms and to bring them out in optimal qualities in a highly emotional film like The Namesake requires a certain something beyond mere technique that is taught in acting schools.

Talk to any Bengali and he will tell you how a lot of us have grown up with fathers like Ashoke Ganguli. Someone who would hold our hands when we were kids and give us lucid life lessons. Someone who gave us the priceless gift of wanderlust. Someone who was unobtrusive, at times invisible even, but magically reappeared every time we needed them in our lives. In fact, Irrfan’s portrayal is so impeccably restrained that you can’t be blamed for focusing more on Tabu or Kal Penn or even Jacinda Barrett (for obvious reasons!) in the movie! It’s only after Ashoke Ganguli’s sudden demise that the power of his acting hits the viewer! It’s almost as if something is amiss.

Also, the way his body language in the film changes as Ashoke ages is remarkable! From the straight-spined young professor with excitement in his eyes as he explores a new country, to the closer-to-retirement Ashoke who walks with a slight limp because of knee pain, he gets it absolutely spot on. There hardly is a Bengali who doesn’t have a father or an uncle struggling with knee pain because of arthritis after a certain age!

Without resorting to an iota of hyperbole, I can also say that in a few scenes Ashoke Ganguli actually reminded me of my father. A year before my father passed away, I had a job offer that required me to move back to Kolkata. An offer that I eventually declined. My father, already three years into his battle with a rare form of blood cancer by then, was stoked at the idea of me coming back. The day I told him about my decision to stay put in Hyderabad, I still have vivid memories of the “jeta bhalo mone hoy shetai koro (do what you think is best for you)” that he said. Despite his words, his expression was one of despair and agony.

It was a spitting image of the scene in which Gogol informs his parents of his decision to change his name to Nikhil. Ashima, the mother, tries to dissuade him. But Ashoke, strongly aware that Gogol’s mind is made up and that any resistance will eventually prove futile, says, “Do as you wish”. His facial expressions can’t hide his heartache though, as he then picks up his cigarettes and goes out to smoke, tongue stuck firmly in his cheek as if to stop himself from saying something unpleasant!

Perhaps that’s why the news of his death affected me the way it did. It almost felt like a personal loss, even though my only connection with him had always been through his films. There always is that “Oh he’s gone too soon!” when someone dies so young and at the height of his powers, but this wasn’t just that. It was a much deeper sense of loss.

Perhaps the cricketer in him (he’d once made it to the Rajasthan u-23 squad) took the age-old adage that says quit while you are still on top too seriously!

But even in death, Irrfan managed to create one last piece of art. It was almost like he was waiting for his mother to go first, so she doesn’t have to bear the agony of seeing her son die! It was his last masterpiece.

And what sense of timing as well! This lockdown has given us all time to ponder and analyze our lives and our priorities. We are now constantly reminded of how uncertain life is! At any other time, people would have mourned his demise for a day and then moved on with their busy, fast and spend-more-time-in-traffic-than-at-home lives.

It was as if Irrfan carefully chose this time to leave. So that people can spend days, weeks even, thinking about him, watching his body of work and reveling in his genius!

Thank you, Sir, for taking us along in this journey. There truly will never be another Irrfan!

Rest in peace, art and histrionics up there!