Dear Manoj, Smell sweet and blossom!
James Shirley's "Death the Leveller"is a beautiful philosophical poem. Though death is realistic, it throws a lot of questions into our minds such as, why should this happen to him/her? why should people die due to several health reasons despite magnificent medical advancement? and so on. Death happens in different styles to different people of different age. But still certain deaths either shock us or mock us.
When celebrities and film personalities die many such questions arise. A very pleasant and health-conscious actor like R,Muthuraman of Tamil cinema was reported to have died at his jogging spot at the age of 52, following a massive heart attack. Recently a growing character actor called Marimuthu died of heart attack at the age of 57. Now it is Manoj Bharathiraja who passed away yesterday following a heart attack before he could reach the age of fifty.
The death of Manoj would really have shocked the Tamil film industry and would have knocked down the mind and spirit of his ageing father and most eminent film maker Bharathiraja.From his first film Tajmahal to the most recent Viruman, Manoj had proved his natural acting calibre, reflecting a sweet demeanour in roleplay. He had also played a vagabond kind of negative role, in Alli Arjuna.. His most notable films are Samuthram,Varushamellaam Vasantham, Maha Nadigan, Annakodi, Vaaimai,Maanaadu and Viruman,{in the last, as one of the elder brothers of Karthik Sivakumar}
Cinema is a field that suitably acknowledges or shabbily rejects talents. 'The mute inglorious Miltons' of Tamil cinema would certainly be bearing the load of rejection in their hearts leading to an emotional turmoil. Reflecting upon the multi dimensions of death, the poem 'Death the Leveller' strikingly says,
The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against Fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings:
Sceptre and Crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crookèd scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill:
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:
Early or late
They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath
When they, pale captives, creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds!
Upon Death's purple altar now
See where the victor-victim bleeds.
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb:
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.
Let the departed soul of Manoj "smell sweet and blossom" in the soil.