Fallen stars: Why do we grieve celebrity deaths?
In the summer of 2014, I finished reading Jhumpa Lahiri’s The Namesake- eleven years after she published the book. Like all other works of Lahiri, The Namesake left me with a book hangover. For the next few days, I was cooped up in my bed, unable to pick up on pending school work or indulge in arduous literature. That very week, I found out that there was a film adaptation of the book with the same name. Therefore, I did what my devil-may-care peers from college do with alcohol- I cured a hangover with a congener of the culprit. Before watching Mira Nair’s ‘The Namesake’, I had already curated formless cut-outs of its characters- the humble, muted and sensitive presence of Ashoke, complemented by the soft-peddled mischief of Ashima. At 15, with a name that my teachers either mispronounced or found ‘interesting’, I understood Gogol and like him, even protested to have my name changed. Then in walked Irrfan Khan and slipped into this stubborn cut-out of mine with an ease that made me wonder if it was in fact, made only for him.
I have had the pleasure of encountering several Bengali men in my life, and I have quietly consumed their oft repeated caricatures on celluloid- loud, heavily-accented, pan-chewing men who are invariably assertive of their opinions. And then came Irrfan Khan with his tempered demeanour playing the role of a quiet, educated, middle-class Bengali man, who puffs a smoke with his books, smacks his lips in a nervous fashion, and awkwardly hosts his son’s American girlfriend for lunch. For a lot of people, and rightfully so, some of his best performances were in The Lunchbox, Paan Singh Tomar, Hindi Medium or even Madaari. But it was Ashoke’s sparse and pleasant laughter, his head tilting affectionately towards his Ashima, and the drooping presence of an old man who is innocently afraid that made me fall in love with the genius of Irrfan Khan. And I made a good journey out of this love story. I watched him become Rana in Piku, and then a doting father in Hindi Medium, and smiled ear to ear while I was at it. Then I watched him leave ‘the smell of an old man’ in The Lunchbox and wept a little. You see, every frame that my mind could conceive, he would effortlessly embrace and make his own. So, as I waddled from one phase of my life to another, I started believing that stories are immortal. And so are the artists who represent them.
As we grow older, our perception of time changes- it moves faster. Despite what it may seem to be, it is not because we’re losing our minds. With age, the speed at which we process new images decreases, and the way our neuronal networks process information changes. Basically, we’re seeing less new things than before but within the same brackets of time, and this makes us feel as if time is passing faster. However, while this may apply to everyday phenomenon- a summer break, or your niece who can now speak fluently but was only babbling ‘yesterday’, do these principles apply to our relationships with celebrities- who we neither know nor interact with personally? Apparently not. Our relationships with celebrities are supposed to escape the cage of tangible reality- because the impressions they leave behind escape that of time. This phenomenon, known as parasocial interaction refers to such psychological relationships experienced by an audience.
However, I would like to believe that these relationships stretch beyond glamour, or acquired fame. When Irrfan Khan passed away in May 2020, the audience had known for a while that he had been unwell. And yet, the shock landed as violently as it would have, had it been unexpected, or a friend. When Sushant Singh Rajput passed away in June 2020, the unprecedented tragedy of the situation spread like wildfire across the country. In his short but promising career, SSR enacted characters that were relatable. In MH Dhoni, he subtly echoed mannerisms, dialect and body language, and in Byomkesh Bokashi he competently portrayed the understated brilliance of the character.
The point that I am trying to make, dear reader, is that the concept of stories is intricately sewn into the fabric of all humanity, and culture. The manifestation of that concept may vary- in the form of language, verses, prominent conflicts, resolutions and characterization. But stories, by themselves, ARE immortal. And the stronger our love for a story, which may be complemented by our love for a well-portrayed character, the more affected we are despite its fictional presence. When I was done watching Parasite, I remember being affected to the point that I wasn’t ready to watch another thriller for a while. The same goes for Hindi films like CityLights, Ugly, and Lootera, the Assamese film Aamis, or Bengali films like Pather Panchali, Apur Panchali and Nirbaak. I am assuming that with that concise list, it may seem that I am significantly affected by dark thrillers and tragedies, which is not untrue. And maybe, another person is deeply influenced by romantic comedies that I will only watch to ‘re-hydrate’ myself for another tragedy. Neither is right nor wrong, just the two separate covers of the same book. And it is the expression of these stories in flesh and bone that consumes the randomness of life whole. As temporary keepers of our beloved characters, artists and celebrities then paradoxically become immortal.
And when immortal stars fall, the shock is bound to be painful. Therefore, grief may become a natural outcome because the loss is perceived to be personal. Some of our most intense emotions- anger, sorrow, fear, frustration, grief- are not ‘logical’. Logic would say that the grief you are feeling, while legitimate, does not have any utility. However, that statement must make you question whether logic should rule all commitments in your life, and not the genuineness of your emotions.
When Robin Williams died of suicide in 2014 and a part of you sank in disbelief, your reaction was valid and caused you genuine pain. It made you think of cherished moments you stole from having him portray characters that touched you- whether it was Mrs. Doubtfire, Sean Maguire, or the ever-spirited John Keating. His passing also propelled into action discussions on mental health, and the utter unpredictability of life.
A similar turn of events followed the passing of Chester Bennington- a musician most of my generation grew up listening to. Heartfelt tributes by fans all over the world poured into our social media feeds, recalling the fondness with which his music would be remembered. And when Sushant Singh Rajput passed away, the initial discourse was again on mental health, and shock that is yet to recede. However, what seems to be a common thread in the way we process the news of a celebrity passing is the remorse of unfinished business. It did not matter that Sridevi hadn’t acted in many films after getting married, or that SSR had delivered three commercial hits in the past few years, or that Irrfan Khan could not promote the last film he starred in. The remorse comes from a possibility- that there could have been something more: one more film, one more song, one more game.
Grief counselors suggest that there can be a less depressing take on celebrity deaths. Sometimes, they push you to reflect on the kind of qualities you adored in them. They could have been a sportsperson, a singer, an actor, a chef, a writer, or the distant memory of a story you cannot stop crying/smiling about. Above all, any death that significantly affects us is tied to some form of connection. And that is why even the passing of someone we scarcely knew may impact us because the gravity of ‘suddenly not existing’ anymore becomes a reality. In fact, the flip-side of knowing and grieving someone who left sketches of their presence on screens and words alike is that your relationship with them doesn’t have to be over. Fans have often found meaning in such unexpected ‘emotional crises’ by engaging with the works of their departed artists- revisiting inspirational messages, focusing on brilliantly delivered performances, or appreciating life itself. Others have preserved memoirs in the form of letters, journals, or artwork.
The day of Irrfan Khan’s passing, I went about my business as I would have the day before. However, I still carried a dent in my mood. It felt like something wasn’t right- akin to the time a tooth fell and my tongue sprung to the unfamiliar cavity like a malfunctioned clock hand. The emotions I felt seemed instinctual, and yet, the tyranny of logic kept reminding me of their futility. So that night my partner and I watched Angrezi Medium, his last Hindi film. We laughed, and smiled; chuckled and sighed. The cavity did not disappear, and no part of his absence seemed any less daunting. But then I remembered that for those two and a half hours, he exuded the same unbridled presence that I had grown up watching. And that one day, when the cavity is filled, not replaced, and the dent smoothed, I will remember to relive the stories I dare forget.
