Rajinified

For as long as I can remember, people have been telling me how great Rajini is. He is, undoubtedly, a superstar. Last night, I realised that for myself.

(For context: Rajinikanth is a Tamil actor, fondly called the superstar of Tamil cinema. His aura and fanbase are unmatched. An actor just became the CM of Tamil Nadu. There was a lot of doubt about whether he would win the elections or not. If Rajini decided to contest, I have no doubt he would win.)

I watched Jailer 2 last night, the latest Rajinikanth movie, released just a few days ago. In the days between its release and my watching it, my Instagram feed was filled with edits about Rajini’s aura and videos of his fans losing their minds in theatres. I was looking forward to experiencing it for myself. I was a little sceptical, though, since I was watching it in Karnataka rather than Tamil Nadu. I wasn’t sure if people would react the same way.

They didn’t, really. There were a few whistles and cheers, but the audience was relatively quiet. I couldn’t help wondering what it would have been like to watch the movie in Tamil Nadu, surrounded by people who had come to celebrate Rajini as much as they had come to watch a film.

But the audience’s enthusiasm, or lack thereof, didn’t really matter. I must say, I had goosebumps throughout most of the movie. Rajini didn’t do much, but the background music and slow-motion effects made it electrifying. He would walk into a room, turn his head, and the bad guys would go flying before he even touched them. There would be explosions, the music would swell, and I would find myself holding my breath. It was ridiculous, really. And it was glorious.

My favourite was Hukum Reloaded. There is a line in the song, “Usura kuduka kodi peru,” which roughly translates to “millions of people willing to give their lives.” At that moment, Anirudh strips away the music, leaving the voices of the audience. And there is something about hearing those voices, even through a movie soundtrack, that makes the line feel less like a lyric and more like a declaration. Millions of people would do anything for this man. And they want him to know it.

I wanted to cheer. I wanted to whistle and shout along with everyone else. I would have, if I had been watching the movie with the right company. Instead, I sat in my seat, my heart racing, wondering how something as simple as a man walking and turning could make me feel this way.

I grew up watching Rajini movies with my family. I understood the hype. I had seen the mannerisms, heard the music, and watched people celebrate him for years. But understanding why people love someone and experiencing even a fraction of that love yourself are two different things. I had always known Rajini was a superstar. I just wasn’t sure if I felt the same way about him.

Now, I think I understand a little better.

There is only so much you can explain about Rajini’s appeal by talking about his acting, his screen presence, or his ability to turn an ordinary gesture into something extraordinary. Those things matter, of course. But I don’t think they entirely explain what happens in a theatre when he appears on screen. There is something else at work, something that has been built over decades, through films, music, memories, and the collective devotion of millions of people. The audience doesn’t simply watch Rajini. They bring their love for him into the theatre, and the film gives that love somewhere to go.

Perhaps that is why the music matters so much. The background score tells you that something magnificent is happening, even when all Rajini is doing is walking. The slow motion stretches a few seconds into an event. The explosions make his presence feel larger than life. And somewhere between the music, the screen, and the anticipation of what he is going to do next, you stop questioning the spectacle and surrender to it.

I went into Jailer 2 expecting aura and goosebumps, even if the story turned out to be mediocre. I got what I came for. But I also came away with something I hadn’t quite expected: an understanding of the people who have been telling me how great Rajini is for as long as I can remember.

I didn’t need the audience in my theatre to go wild. I didn’t need to whistle or scream to prove that I was enjoying myself. Sitting there, feeling my heart race as the music played, was enough. For a little while, I understood what it meant to be part of something much bigger than myself, something shared by people who might never meet each other but who would recognise the same feeling when his name appeared on a screen.

I think I finally understand why people love Rajini.

I think I got Rajinified.